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DISCONTENT 


BY 

JAMES FRANCIS BARRETT / 

A 1 * 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE LOYALIST” 



P. J. KENEDY & SONS 

NEW YORK 













Copyright, 1923 
P. J. KENEDY & SONS 
Printed in U. S. A. 


t 


JAN 10 W 


©C1A7GC740 


Iyo 'V* 


TO THE MEMORY OF 


MY 

mb 



PREFACE 



HIS is the story of an egoist. 

If she were less concerned about herself the 
story might never have been written. 

She is not a heroine, for she has too many faults. 
Just a simple, ordinary person, imaginative, fretful, 
visionary, querulous. Circumstances envelop her, and 
she is incapable of surmounting them. When the crisis 
comes she learns that she has to be made over. Of 
course you will lose patience with her, until you remem¬ 
ber that you yourself have been culpable of the same 
silly, nonsensical faults. Don’t close the book and con¬ 
sole yourself with the thought that she is impossible. 
She is a type, and her likeness may be found in every 
community in the country—in Gopher Prairie, Zenith, 
Shefford, and New York. 

We prefer to read only those books that portray our 
best sides, for the seductive consolation they afford. 
But some of the people we meet with in books we sel¬ 
dom encounter in real life. It is stimulating to see our¬ 
selves as we really are, however unpleasant it may be 
to have our shortcomings characterized, our conceits 
exposed, our selfish appetites revealed. It teaches us 



VI 


PREFACE 


the need of disciplining our wills, our affections, our 
minds. 

Edith Colman is only a type. 

No one hopes to imitate her. 

But Nature sometimes rhymes her children. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


I 

W ITH a mournful sigh Edith Colman threw her¬ 
self on the sofa near her dressing-table and 
closed her eyes in languor. On her face was 
a look of petulance. 

It was only eight o’clock, but already the night 
seemed terribly long, lonesome, and intolerable. Out¬ 
side, the cold winter wind blew fierce blasts through the 
trees, making them strain and crack. Snow was piled 
up on the sidewalks, while scores of shovels beat ner¬ 
vous staccatos in an effort to clear it off. Snow cov¬ 
ered the roads like a blanket, where noisy motor cars 
droned and sputtered as they endeavored to force a 
way through it. All day long it had stormed, and 
the massive firmament of clouds threw down a man¬ 
tle of gloom. To add to the lack of cheer in the room, 
a dim light burned on the dresser and cast a dull glow 
about the place. Patches of shade swelled beyond the 
bed and out intb the hallway, while a solitary strip of 
doubtful brightness crept up the stairs from the en¬ 
trance hall where the vestibule light was turned on. 
The house was shrouded in somber stillness, save for 



2 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


the melancholy sounds filtering in from the outside, and 
Edith, pensive and sad, waited for her husband, worry¬ 
ing over his protracted delay. 

Ordinarily he was in the habit of informing her of 
the cause of any unexpected tardiness, but of late he 
had grown conspicuously careless about this important 
detail. For some reason she could not rid herself of 
the notion that all was not well with him. Visions of 
crowded trolley cars, caught in the jam of traffic, pro¬ 
jected themselves in the dim light around her, and she 
saw his unconscious form taken from the wreckage and 
removed to a hospital, where he kept calling for her 
in vain. On the other hand she was sadly aware that 
he was no longer the boyish lover of old. He had be¬ 
come tepid in his attentions, careless about many things. 
It was this marked indifference to the ordinary urbani¬ 
ties of domestic life which she had grown to notice 
more and more of late in his conduct. The thought 
saddened her, for she deemed it unfair that she should 
be forced to worry without costing him a thought. She 
would not mind so much if she were sure he meant it, 
but it was the carelessness of it that annoyed her. He 
was so good in many ways that she could not help for¬ 
giving him, but there were times when he was shock¬ 
ingly impossible. 

From a corner of the room, partly concealed in the 
shadowy substance, and on the silence of the wintry 
night, came the sound of merry laughter. It served 
to dispel, for an instant, the solemn sadness that per¬ 
vaded the room and the haunting visions that floated 
through it. Edith roused herself. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 3 

“Babs! What are you doing?” 

‘‘Nothing!” That was the usual reply. Babs was 
always doing “nothing” whenever she was called to 
account. Better to be convicted on evidence than to 
accuse one’s self needlessly! To-night she was but play¬ 
ing with her doll. 

Barbara Colman was live years old, but she looked 
seven. She was precocious, and wanted it clearly un¬ 
derstood by all that she had already passed from in¬ 
fancy to girlhood. She was never anybody’s “little 
girl.” She was just “girl.” She did not play with 
everybody in the neighborhood, only with the “nice 
people.” She was going to visit France when she grew 
up and meet the relatives of Eudoxia, Miss Wheaton’s 
maid, and acquire an education just like hers! 

“Mother!” she cried now, leaning on the couch. 

“Now, Babs! You mustn’t bother mother. Can’t 
you see she is tired?” 

“I am tired, too!” came the artful reply, as she 
climbed into her mother’s lap. 

“Well! Come, then! Lay your head down and go 
to sleep.” 

“But I don’t want to sleep.” 

“You don’t? What do you want?” 

“Just to rest!” 

A few minutes’ silence—and then: 

“Mother?” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Can I have some candy?” 

“Can I?” 

“Yes, mother!” 


4 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Didn’t I tell you nice people never say ‘Can I?’ ” 
No answer. 

“Didn’t I?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” falteringly. 

“Now what should you say?” 

Signs of mental distress, followed by efforts to rise 
and depart. 

“Now, Bab, you must answer mother. What did I 
tell you to say when you asked for something?” 

“I dunno!” shamefully intoned. 

“Didn’t I tell you to use ‘May I’ when asking 
permission?” 

Head nods in reserved manner. 

“Now—say it correctly.” 

“May I have some candy?” 

“No, Babs, there is no more candy!” 

“Why?” 

“Because there isn’t. You ate it.” 

More silence, during which time the wind shrieked 
pitilessly and the windows trembled in fear. 

“Mother, where is daddy?” 

“I don’t know, dear.” 

“When is he coming home?” 

“I don’t know that, either.” 

“Where is he?” 

“At the office, I presume.” 

“Will he be home to-night?” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

Fell a protracted silence broken only by the howling 
of the wind. 

Satisfied that there was no more to be said on the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


5 


subject and content with the information that daddy 
would soon be home (with another fresh box of candy 
and a new story like the one he told her last night 
about the Happy Beggar) Babs settled herself com¬ 
fortably beside her mother and drowsed off. Edith 
looked at the peaceful child and began to stroke the 
flaxen head. 

“Why is it,” she mused to herself, “that men occupy 
so large a part in women's hearts when they them¬ 
selves continually put their home, their children, their 
wives, their domestic affairs in the remotest suburb of 
their own?” . . No, perhaps she did not mean it just 

that way . . . but there was such a difference between 
the sexes in this respect. She could feel it, if she could 
not describe it. Woman, it seemed, gave her all to 
the man and to the home. Men never did that. They 
were too busy to devote themselves to such things. 
They could manage and direct great corporations, 
superintend and construct vast structures, shape and 
define the policies of empires, but they didn’t know 
the first thing about a home or what it meant to bring 
up a family. They had reputations to acquire, business 
to attend to, ambitions to gratify. When they married 
it was usually for the purpose of setting up a domicile, 
where they could repair after the day’s toil; but they 
were unwilling to sacrifice in its behalf any of the big 
things of life, business, politics, fraternal organizations, 
stocks and bonds. Women, when they married, gavq 
their all. Men made judicious reservations. How 
one-sided! It seemed to Edith that women always got 
the worst of the bargain. Poor Babs! She pitied her 


6 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


for being a girl. Some day she would grow up and 
surrender herself to a man, and, the romance over, 
wonder why she did it. 

She herself had done it, and now, after six or seven 
years, she was wondering why. It was not because 
she was unhappy; “discontented” would better describe 
her condition. Little by little she had grown to feel 
that her married life had lost all flavor of romance, 
owing, in great measure, to the many incompatibilities 
which shattered mutual confidence and which neither 
husband nor wife seemed capable of smoothing over. 
It was true, he was her inferior in many things. She 
had not reckoned with that. “Why do you think of 
marrying a man like Robert Colman?” her mother had 
begged her. But she was headstrong. 

For Robert Colman was not born to wealth, neither 
did he command position in life. He was an ordinary 
young man with an extraordinary aptitude for doing 
things well. He meant to succeed in a world that smiles 
upon those who make the most of what they have. 
The first and only employment he ever sought, after 
completing his high school course, was in the office of 
an attorney-at-law, where he applied himself with such 
assiduity that he was enabled to pass the examination 
for the State Bar at the termination of his apprentice¬ 
ship. A year later he was taken into partnership by 
his mentor, Judge Walsh, who from the start had 
evinced more than a passing interest in the young man. 
He was honest and courageous, for which reasons he 
won the respect and esteem of the men of influence in 
the city of Shefford. He was industrious, and his name 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


7 


soon became known in the community. It was due to 
these qualities that Edith had, in the beginning, found 
herself attracted by him. He was different from most 
of the young chaps she had known, even though he was 
poor and of ordinary parentage. There were other 
traits that presented him to her imagination in refresh¬ 
ing contrast to the men with whom she had spent many 
hours of useless comradeship all her life. 

“I know we are going to be happy,” she declared 
to him just before their marriage, “and I don’t care 
what people say.” 

“What can they say?” he asked, a little abashed; 
“have I done anything to make myself unworthy of 
you ?” 

“No, of course not; they are only jealous of you. 
You are different from the rest, you have worked hard 
for w 7 hat you have. It means more, doesn’t it, to have 
to work for what you want?” 

“If you infer that I cannot measure up to your ac¬ 
complishments, I agree. You have been blessed with 
opportunities w T hich were not vouchsafed to me. I 
could not enter college, much as I should have liked to, 
and I never had the time to meet people socially. But 
what I have is yours if you are willing to share it with 
me. You can help me immeasurably by what you have, 
and in this way supplement my deficiencies.” 

The bargain was honest. Their marriage was not 
going to be any selfish demonstration of individual 
tastes and preferments; it was to be built on solid soil— 
the soil of service, sacrifice, and cooperation. There 
would be no master or mistress in their home. Author- 


8 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


ity would be fairly divided. Tenderness and forbear¬ 
ance were to be mutually observed. It was to be a 
union of opposite excellences such as every boy and girl 
dreams of in the springtime, when hearts are free and 
reason'knows no reasons, a form of partnership gov¬ 
erned by the self-same standards, with everything for 
each other and everything commonly shared. 

None of those shocking modern notions respecting 
feminine freedom, such as Edith had read about in col¬ 
lege, would be found in her home. She had never quite 
approved of the theories concerning the social and eco¬ 
nomic independence of women. Others might find 
them novel and charming. She could not. What if 
her education was superior to her husband’s, she was 
still but complementary to him! That was the law of 
creation. Woman as man’s equal is not and never can 
be woman. She is nobler in some respects, when meas¬ 
ured by her own standards, but she is a complete entity 
in herself, individually distinct from and dissimilar to 
man. Her duty was manifest: in her lay the power 
to make the comforts of the home, to make the most 
of the finer arts she had studied and mastered, devot¬ 
ing her time and energy to the advising and comforting 
of her husband. 

She began her married life with the finest ideals. In 
the years that followed she succeeded in outgrowing 
most of them. True, she accepted the responsibilities 
of wifehood and motherhood and met them faithfully, 
but there were bad moments. Rising in the morning 
to prepare breakfast on the gas-stove in the kitchenette 
where there was scarcely room to turn around, bathing 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


9 


and dressing the baby and trying to keep her still while 
she washed dishes and put them away, setting in order 
the things of the house, sweeping and dusting rooms, 
ordering the meats and groceries, mending and caring 
for the clothes—not much romance here! Nothing but 
tedious monotony and endless existence for days and 
weeks and months—and nothing better to hope for; 
and no choice but to keep on. The house itself an¬ 
noyed her; it was one of those attached houses, com¬ 
mon enough to all cities, small and stuffy. Poor 
as it was, its maintenance kept them continually on the 
edge of their means. There was no semblance of pri¬ 
vacy in these thin-walled apartments, where conversa¬ 
tion could be plainly heard through plaster and boards. 
Still, it had one attraction—it was fashionable to oc¬ 
cupy these places, especially if they happened to be 
located on the Avenue. Everybody worshiped the 
Avenue. It was the rendezvous of the upper set, and 
to dwell there lent one a somewhat exaggerated impor¬ 
tance and distinction. 

The city of Shefford was noted for the number of 
its ultra-fashionable families, the real or pretended 
progeny of the early New England settlers. Their 
high lineage seemed to guarantee them a sort of god¬ 
like existence. There was no community, not even Pil¬ 
grim Plymouth, that honored its early traditions more 
scrupulously than did this same city, whose very atmos¬ 
phere was charged with that reserve and decorum so 
typical of early Puritanism. Its people were stately 
and supercilious, as if the entire burden of Colonial 
history was placed upon their shoulders. It had its 


10 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

exclusive sets, some of which could trace back an un¬ 
broken lineage to John Alden and Priscilla Allen, the 
eighth generation now vaunting the proud mixture of 
that blood. It had its time-honored burial-places 
(though these were unkempt and forlorn often), 
where children, halting on their way from school, loved 
to trace with their tiny fingers the obscure biographies 
on the soft brownstone slabs. It had its old buildings, 
some of them designed by the great Bulfinch himself, 
and lately restored to their original lines by philan¬ 
thropic citizens; its old churches, with the identical pews 
in which the patriots were wont to worship; its shrines 
and landmarks in the midst of commerce and industry, 
their antique fronts adorned with bronze tablets com¬ 
memorative of sites and achievements. Small wonder 
its people affected an air of distinction and segregation. 
They were woven into Colonial history by their geneal¬ 
ogy; in them the present and the past met and kissed. 

It was this upper set, with its luxury and pretense, 
that enticed Edith Colman, and tempted her. She be¬ 
came impatient with her lot and felt acutely envious of 
the lot of others. She longed to be noticed by these 
exclusive men and women, and counted it a real favor 
to be numbered in their company. She tried to imitate 
them in everything, from smoking cigarettes—though 
this shocked her—to owning a summer camp. But 
smoking made her sick, and she had not the means to 
measure up to her ambitions. Her only claim to ex¬ 
clusiveness lay in the solitary fact of her living on the 
Avenue. Robert was but an ordinary lawyer, which, 
in a city like Sheftord w T here office buildings fairly 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


ii 


teemed with students of the courts, meant that he could 
never earn more than a pittance. What if he was hon¬ 
est and sincere in his dealings with others or more in¬ 
telligent than the average—such talents were not 
marketable commodities. The honest lawyer seemed 
to be always poverty-stricken. She could see no pros¬ 
pect of his ever earning enough money to give her the 
position in life she desired, unless some beneficent spirit, 
laden with everything from honors to wealth, winged 
its way to her door. Social position fired her fancy. 
But poverty called her back to earth and set her se¬ 
curely within the narrow walls of her home. 

As she reached this point in her retrospection, the 
front door opened and she heard her husband’s familiar 
cough in the vestibule. She leaned back and drew aside 
the curtain to peer into the night. The storm had 
passed, and a pale golden moon filled the heaveps, 
lighting up the fragments of clouds hurrying on. Then 
she bent over her sleeping child. Poor Babs! How 
peaceful and happy she looked! She had been too tired 
to wait for “daddy” and greet him as he came upstairs, 

“What in the world happened?” was Edith’s first 
impatient question. “Where have you been until this 
hour—without any supper?” 

“What time is it?” he returned, mechanically. “It 
isn’t late.” 

“You’d think it late if you had to sit here alone all 
day long. Did you have any supper?” 

“Yes; a couple of sandwiches. I don’t care for 
anything.” 

He passed in front of her indifferently, and began 


12 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

to remove his coat. The lines on his face, the deep 
furrows that cleaved his forehead and cheeks, were un¬ 
usually prominent, and his eyes were swollen. It was 
evident he had had a trying day and as a consequence 
was none too cheerful. Bab awoke, and called to him. 

“Hello, kidlets!” he cried, catching her and tossing 
her into the air. “Fell asleep waiting for the old man, 
didn’t you? Hey! You’re not mad at me, too, are 
you?” 

Babs giggled enthusiastically. 

“Any one would be angry at you,” Edith replied, 
in piqued accents. “Where were you? You haven’t 
told me yet.” 

“At the office! Good Lord! Where else would you 
think I’d be in a storm like this?” 

“How should I know? You might have called up 
and told me.” 

“I had a thousand things to think of. Never gave 
the ’phone a thought until now. I suppose I might 
have called, at that,” he added. 

“I never met any one like you, so downright indif¬ 
ferent and careless. It wouldn’t bother you in the 
least, I suppose, whether this house kept or not, unless 
you happened to come home and find it gone. Then 
you would wonder what happened! You think of 
nothing from morning to night but that office. While 
you are home you are talking about it, or you have a 
pile of books under your arm and you shut yourself up 
in your room like a hermit. There was a time when 
you would call up occasionally to inquire how things 
were going, but no more.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


13 


“I am sorry, Edith. You are quite right; I should 
have called you, but I expected to be leaving every 
minute. It was not the storm that kept me, but two or 
three men in conference. They didn’t get home either, 
or think of calling up their wives; so I suppose they 
are hearing about it now.” 

“I suppose I shouldn’t care—but you have grown so 
careless and apathetic. There was a time when I 
thought nothing could come between us.” 

“And nothing has-” 

“A thousand things! Business! Politics! What¬ 
ever do you want mixing up in politics for? There is 
something suggestive of cheap advertising, questionable 
methods, dirty apparel in a politician. I wish you 
would give it up.” 

“Give it up!” he echoed. “Why, Edith, you do not 
understand. I am not getting into this game for the 
excitement of it, but for what I can get out of it. It 
means everything to-day to keep in the public eye. It 
is a matter of business with most of us. Call it cheap 
advertising, dirty work—I know what it is. But I 
have to do it. Judge Walsh used to say, ‘Get into poli¬ 
tics, boy, or join the National Guard. It’s another 
way of getting better acquainted.’ ” 

The blood rose to Edith’s temples, for she had to 
give in to him again. She felt that she knew better, 
yet she was unable to convince him, so adroit was he 
in the use of words. Before he came in she was ex¬ 
asperated to the breaking point, but this passed away. 
He was so frank about everything—the storm, the con¬ 
ference, the forgetfulness—that she could find no rea- 



14 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


son for not excusing him. For the moment she was 
not even conscious of the causes of what had happened; 
there was another matter to engage his attention. 

“I hope you have made no plans for to-morrow 
night,” she ventured like one who needed courage to 
say what was in her mind, 

“To-morrow night! Why?” 

There it was again; always replying to a question by 
asking another. Flow could she ever get on with onq 
who argued this way? 

“We have been invited to the theater.” 

“Indeed!” 

“By the Wheatons. Wasn’t it nice of them?” 

“Nice! For what?” 

“To invite us. There are hundreds who would give 
their souls to be seen with the Wheatons. They really 
count in this town.” 

“They did once. The old man was a power. Nat 
Wheaton owned the city of Shefford once upon a time. 
He made and unmade more men than you and I know.” 

“If you mean politics I don’t know what you are 
talking about. To-day the Wheatons are the real lead¬ 
ers of the city. Their name alone is worth much— 
and to be seen with them is a privilege.” 

It was kind enough of them, thought Robert Colman, 
but inconsequential insofar as privilege was concerned. 
Social leaders made little impression on him, and peo¬ 
ple with a pedigree reminded him of a horse show, 
where gallant steeds, groomed and sleek, waited atten¬ 
tively in the various stalls for their accustomed pet- 
tings. He had a poor opinion of wealthy parasites. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


i5 

“There is another reason I am anxious to go,” she 
continued. “Nazimova is playing Ibsen.” 

“Who is Ibsen?” 

“A Norwegian, and one of the greatest dramatists 
of modern times. And they say Nazimova does him 
beautifully.” 

“A problem play, I suppose?” 

“A Doll’s House—yes, I suppose you would call it 
a problem play. I read it in college, but I have never 
seen it presented. I have the book here if you would 
care to run through it.” 

“I do not think I can go-” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, I have an important appointment for to¬ 
morrow night.” 

“I never saw one like you. Don’t you want to be 
seen with the Wheatons? It is very seldom I ask you 
to take me anywhere-” 

“Don’t be so foolish! It just happens I can’t go, 
that’s all. There is a committee meeting to-morrow 
night and I can’t stay away. I might have postponed 
it had I known this earlier.” 

“Why didn’t you call up, and I would have told 
you.” 

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated and turned away. 

“Bert, I am going whether you take me or not. In 
fact I have already accepted. I don’t see why I should 
be compelled to sit home alone just because you find it 
impossible to come with me. People are getting away 
from that idea more and more. It is not at all unusual 




16 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


nowadays to find wives going out to places of amuse¬ 
ment without their husbands.” 

“Let’s leave it at that. If you don’t mind I won’t. 

I suppose when you tell them-” 

“Oh, no! You can tell them.” 

He left the room. 



II 


E DITH could not quite forgive her husband that 
refusal, and spoke to him little the next morn¬ 
ing. Breakfast was a dull meal, for neither 
manifested the remotest interest in the other. Robert 
Colman seemed to be conscious only of his strenuous 
program for the day—at least he so impressed her— 
while she, on the other hand, smarted under a thousand 
stings of spitefulness as a result of this disturbance of 
her plans. It meant a great deal to her to be seen with 
the Wheatons that evening, more than she could pos¬ 
sibly impress upon him. To have to decline the honor 
and thereby lose the advantage she had gained because 
of the caprice of one who put his own interests before 
everything else was bad enough; but to have the 
Wheatons suspect—they who viewed everything with 
fastidious eyes—that her husband was one of those 
banal creatures who saw nothing elevating or inspiring 
in the drama was humiliating in the extreme. 

He had seldom met the Wheatons socially—at least 
not often enough to form any opinion, and conse¬ 
quently he could not claim to know them. On one occa¬ 
sion they met in the Park. It was one day the preceding 
summer, during the Flower Show. Bert naturally fell 
in with Kelso, and together they began a tour of the 
gardens. Edith fancied they were getting on splendidly, 

17 


18 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


until he told her afterwards of his impressions of the 
man. He said he did not like his annoying habit of 
asking so many personal questions; it seemed to him 
that the fellow was a prig, one who was pleading ig¬ 
norance to everything for the shrewd purpose of draw¬ 
ing another out. And since then he had avoided Kelso 
Wheaton whenever possible. 

“I think you do not want to meet them at all,” she 
said now, tartly. 

“Why, yes, I do,” he replied. “They are all right as 
far as I know. What makes you say that?” 

She looked at him. w r ith steady eyes. It was almost 
a menacing look. He did not flinch. 

“You don’t think I am inventing a pretext for staying 
away?” he continued. 

“I don’t know. Some men are capable of anything. 
You told me you thought Mr. Wheaton was a 
snob-” 

“Did I? I should not have said that. How many 
times have I met him ? Only once or twice ! Certainly 
not often enough to form an opinion of him.” 

“Nevertheless, you are prejudiced against him.” 

“If I am, it is because he is not our kind.” 

“What of that?” 

“He doesn’t notice us because of our equality. The 
difference of interest and ambition that exists between 
us is too great to admit any degree of friendship. He 
has inherited position and wealth and spends most of 
his time indulging in the luxuries of the rich—clubs, 
sports, travels. We are not in the same class.” 

“Well,” she sighed, “I am not so fastidious. We 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


19 


do not have to be in their class it seems, for they have 
made important advances to us already. It is no small 
honor to be asked to share their box with them this 
evening, and I think them pretty decent.” 

It was in college that Edith had first met Evelyn 
Wheaton, but they did not become friends there. Not¬ 
withstanding the fact that both girls were from the 
same city, neither of them knew the other until intro¬ 
duced on the campus. Edith had often heard of Evelyn, 
of course, for everybody in Shefford knew her by repu¬ 
tation as the daughter of Nat Wheaton, the sewing- 
machine man. For over fifty years the Wheaton Manu¬ 
facturing Company was the leading industry in Shef¬ 
ford, and for the last twenty-five years the name of 
Wheaton had been one to conjure with. Its proud 
possessor dictated the policy of the city as mayor for 
ten years and that of his party until the day of his 
death seven years before. He had wielded an influence 
that smacked of absolutism. He made and unmade 
men in a single day. He drove the Tramway Company 
into the hands of a receiver when they refused to accept 
transfers from another line. His friends mourned him 
for days and lined the curb as his cortege passed, while 
his enemies, fearful of him even in death, secluded 
themselves in doorways or hid behind their shutters, 
and secretly rejoiced. 

Shortly before his death he had disposed of his in¬ 
terest in the corporation that bore his name, and retired, 
to West Shefford, where he built a magnificent home. 
Far back from the highway it loomed, a pretentious 


20 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


structure of brick and limestone, an object of interest, 
having little in common with the abodes which stood 
more modestly on either side of the road. The setting 
of the Wheaton mansion left nothing to be desired in 
the way of privacy. It was an artistic creation, notable 
even for affluent Shefford. Behind lay wide level 
meadows where the sluggish Pequabuck overflowed in 
time of freshet, and where the glimmering shadows lay 
half asleep between the windows of the house and the 
distant hills. Before the domes and towers, the city 
glistened and glinted in the afternoon sunshine. Main 
Street crossed in front, at the terminus of an avenue 
shaded by giant poplars, and leading from the front 
door. Forest-clad hills and open fields enveloped the 
countryside, where herds of cattle grazed peacefully in 
the midst of veritable gardens of color. In the summer, 
the windows looked out upon hills and vales aglow 
with red maple and willow and acres and acres of 
flowers scattered thickly in graceful disorder over a 
verdant carpet; in the winter the softly falling snows 
afforded another panorama of unrivaled beauty, its 
whiteness broken only by the sturdy hills climbing sky¬ 
ward, the pines and cedar-bushes making great, black 
spots along their downy sides. 

Of the three children who fell heir to the Wheaton 
estate, Kelso was the best known. The other two, 
Evelyn and Doris, were plain, unaffected girls of simple 
tastes and gentle manners, who shunned the public 
stare. But their brother liked the world’s applause. 
He was popular, and claimed membership in every club 
worth while in the city. He could relate an anecdote 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


21 


with pungent,humor and his anecdotes were always 
apposite. He played a good game of golf, was an 
enthusiastic motorist, loved fishing and hunting, and of 
late had begun to take an active interest in aviation. 
His charity, too, was liberal, and the hospital campaigns 
found him not only a generous contributor, but as an 
earnest of good faith, a tireless worker. He was looked 
up to, and admired, his amiable disposition, his kindly 
smile, combining to make one feel always at ease. 

Edith was glad to learn he was to be included in 
the party, for, her husband’s opinion to the contrary, 
she had always entertained a striking regard for Kelso 
Wheaton. He was ready to add interest to any occa¬ 
sion with a gayety that was infectious. Besides, he 
was polite and gallant, knew the worth-while people and 
their histories. This was something, for it offered to 
Edith’s mind a portrait of luxury which she loved. 

“You won’t be home for supper, I suppose?’’ she 
remarked, as her husband rose from the breakfast- 
table. 

“No,” he replied, “I hardly think so. It is unfor¬ 
tunate for this to happen. If you wish I can meet you 
after the theater-” 

“You need not bother. I expect to get home all 
right. You might wait up for me. I’m going to leave 
Babs with the Dahills.” 

When she prepared to dress for the theater her heart 
beat as if there were some new ferment at work within 
her. Not in a long while had she been so happy. For 
the first time since the night of her Commencement 



22 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


clothes meant something to her. How extremely well 
she would look—and the sort of impression she in¬ 
tended to create was a vision that seemed very real. 
As she stood before her dresser putting a last touch to 
her lovely hair she gazed at herself w T ith satisfaction, 
and with the knowledge that she had not lost any of 
her beauty. In her evening gown of black and jet, 
admirably suited to her brunette type, her arms and 
shoulders revealed themselves as if cut from Parian 
marble. Her face, in contrast, was flushed and warm, 
alive with excitement. She patted her hair and smiled 
with delight. 

“I do hope Evelyn and Doris will not spread them¬ 
selves,” she murmured, as she fastened her corsage 
bouquet of sweet peas. “They have such elegant 
things r 

The bell sounded in the hall and put an end to her 
reverie. She quickened her movements, seized her 
cloak, and threw it about her shoulders. She recognized 
Kelso’s ring. He had come to escort her himself. 

“Oh, I say!” he greeted her as she opened the door. 
“You do look stunning! Too bad about Mr. Colman! 
What! Too bad!” 

“How do you do?” she returned pleasantly and of¬ 
fered him her hand. “Yes, I ’phoned his regrets to 
Evelyn this morning. The invitation came so suddenly 
and unexpectedly that he found it impossible to attend. 
A committee—central committee—or something—I 
don’t know. Are the girls waiting?” 

“Yes; they wouldn’t come in. Yv T e have other com- 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


23 


pany. Mr. and Mrs. Liggett of New York. Splendid 
folks! Makes a nice little party of six.” 

She thought as he spoke that it was just as well 
Bert had found it impossible to postpone his meeting. 

“What a glorious night!” she exclaimed, as shq 
stepped out. 

Meeting the Liggetts proved easy enough. Mr, 
Liggett was quite elderly—over fifty, certainly—and 
she mistook him for Mrs. Liggett’s father at first. 
Betty—as she heard her called—was an attractive 
woman, young and comely. A strange alliance. 

As Betty welcomed her graciously, Edith smiled back 
without any sign of embarrassment. “Are you a lover 
of Ibsen, too?” she inquired. 

“Crazy about him!” Mrs. Liggett replied. “He is 
so subtle.” 

“Will you ever forget ‘Ghosts’?” Edith reminded 
Evelyn. “Wasn’t it horrible?” 

“And what a time we had putting it on!” 

“I wonder how Nazimova does Ibsen?” said Doris. 
“They say she is splendid.” 

“Is she a good-looker? That suits me,” remarked 
Mr. Liggett, in a squeaky tone. 

At the theater they were soon lost in the crowd that 
pushed its way confusedly into the foyer. What makes 
any crowd so boisterous and riotous? They meet, 
push, and struggle like a swarm of ants assaulting a 
mole-hill, every one sensible of his own excellences 
alone, and fully determined never to be outstripped by 
the other. A selection from “The Bohemian Girl” 
was being played by the orchestra and Edith, in her 


24 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


radiant joy, began to hum the air. Never had she 
seemed happier or more buoyant, and her face clearly 
showed it. Not even Mrs. Liggett in her lavish attire 
looked prettier or more attractive, and as she passed 
on the way to the box many turned to observe her. 
Pure delight this, a choice moment—to have the world 
turning to offer her attention and admiration! It 
served to complete her bliss. Everything was so won¬ 
derful! The immense theater (it had never seemed 
so immense before), the big curtain with the enormous 
figures painted upon it, the myriads of faces confronting 
her, row after row as far back as the eye could travel! 
For a moment she felt a twinge of self-consciousness 
as she stood against the brass rail, staring down into 
the audience, and she stepped back, allowing Kelso to 
relieve her of her wrap. He did it gracefully and she 
thanked him with a lovely smile. 

She sat next to him in front of the others, and soon 
began to experience what it meant to have a man’s 
undivided attention. He complimented her on her 
charming appearance, admired her sapphire ring, which 
he pronounced to be unusually fine. Fie reminded her 
of the first time they had met; he had never forgotten, 
he said, the blue dress she wore, and the reddish brown 
beads sewn all over it, like constellations in the sky. 
She w r as a pert little creature then, during those college 
days, and she had not permitted him to see much of 
her. The next thing he knew she had married and 
disappeared from sight. To-night was a jolly occasion, 
so like old times. 

He agreed with her in everything. The question of 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 25 

suffrage made the same appeal to him, on the ground 
that woman’s place was no longer beside the kitchen 
stove but out in the world, shaping its policies with 
men; the League of Nations, a threat to our domestic 
isolation; the Foreign Policy of Mr. Wilson and its 
departure from our traditional usage; the influence of 
the younger school of fiction on the literature of the 
day. 

“Do you know much about Ibsen?” she inquired. 

“Not a great deal,” he replied. “He is a Norwegian 
—dead now these dozen years. His social dramas 
have carried his fame throughout the world. A genius, 
I understand, but radical, immoral, and pessimistic. He 
is credited with giving the drama the impetus that has 
enabled it to reach its present high state.” 

“I must have read this ‘Doll’s House.’ But I can’t 
seem to remember the theme-” 

“It concerns itself with the problem of marriage as 
a failure. In the play Ibsen sacrifices the individuality 
of the woman to that of the man. She is the Doll- 
Wife, who forges her husband’s name to a legal docu¬ 
ment. The plot concerns her efforts to keep the matter 
a secret-” 

“Oh, yes! I remember! And he discovers it-” 

With this the lights grew dim. A hush settled over 
the house. They sat back to await the curtain and 
saw it rise on a room, plainly furnished. Nazi- 
mova, as Nora, entered from back stage carrying 
several parcels and humming gayly. They joined in 
the ovation. 

Edith quivered with emotion as she followed Nora’s 





26 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


soul-torture through the varying scenes of the play. 
Helmar, the selfish husband, blind as a bat to his own 
shortcomings! For the moment Edith imagined her¬ 
self to be Nora in the flesh and began to converse with 
her. “Would you, too, have recoiled from confessing 
this fact, even to your husband?” the flesh-person de¬ 
manded of her. She thought, by way of reply, that 
she might have. “And would not you, too, have left 
in despair a situation that was so hopeless of settle¬ 
ment? What else could you do ? Soon he will discover 
the letter in the box. What then? He will upbraid 
you for duplicity!” No, no, she thought, he will un¬ 
derstand and forgive. He could not do otherwise. 

But the third act came, and with it the climax. 
Nora’s illusions vanish, when it dawns upon her that 
she has, all these years, been living in a doll’s house, 
a lark, a squirrel, a playmate for her husband, but at 
no time his equal, his confidante, his mate. When 
Helmar reads the letter, the miracle she expected failed 
to occur. He upbraids her for her want of principle, 
and declares that she is no fit mother to bring up his 
children. Then she realizes what she has never com¬ 
prehended before: they are not mated, they have never 
really understood each other, there never was any real 
love between them, there was no mutual intercourse, 
no self-sacrifice. And so in despair, she resolves to 
run away from him and his children—they were no 
longer hers—and leave them forever. The curtain 
descends as she goes out the door, her husband sinking 
into a nearby chair, his face in his hands, waiting for 
the miracle to happen. The picture w T as vivid, so vivid 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


27 

that Edith half expected to meet the runaway wife as 
she left the theater. 

During the dinner that followed Edith could scarcely 
bring herself to participate in the pleasantries of the 
occasion. A conflict of emotions pricked her mind. 
Nods and smiles showed approval of the evening’s 
entertainment. All seemed to agree that it was very 
exciting. But Edith had left the theater and come to 
the dinner-table quivering with the thought that she 
had seen the artificiality and unreality of her own life 
vividly portrayed before her. She had never before 
felt the extent of the illusion that darkened her home. 
When Nora and Helmar faced each other, one on each 
side of the table, and set about to unravel the warp 
and weft of their lives’ tapestry, which hitherto they 
had been viewing on the wrong side, it revealed to 
her her own life with poignant emphasis. Nora’s 
declaration of independence was striking; it was flying 
in the face of orthodoxy, but there was no other way 
out of it unless—unless both of them buried their own 
characters, forgot their own personal pride and indi¬ 
viduality, became subservient to the whims and eccen¬ 
tricities of the other. This was asking too much in 
this liberal age and, besides—was human nature capable 
of such complete reformation? 

“Wasn’t it surprising? It was over before I knew 
it!” exclaimed Betty Liggett. 

“Wonder where Nora went?” chimed in her hus¬ 
band, prosaically. “Bet a million she’ll be back before 
morning!” 

“I don’t think so. Helmar was impossible.” 


28 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“To be candid,” said Evelyn, “I don’t think that 
stuff does much good. It doesn’t help any to advertise 
methods of escape from unhappy marriages-” 

“Oh, well,” Kelso rejoined, “it’s only a play. Such 
dramatic episodes do not happen in every-day life. A 
play must have a climax to supply the thrill.” 

“Ibsen is too drastic,” Evelyn went on. “The sore 
spots of our nature ought to be concealed. You cannot 
expose the truth at all times. Even modesty requires 
a certain amount of silence. Conduct is never justified 
by emotion.” 

“What else could she do?” Doris asked. “She 
waited for the miracle-” 

“To happen; but there was no miracle,” was Eve¬ 
lyn’s reply. 

Edith listened to the discussion, but ventured no 
opinion. A shudder ran over her. What if she were 
confronted with a similar situation? She did not know 
what she would do. Marriage was, after all, a great 
experiment, and it was only natural to suppose that 
some experiments turned out disastrously. What, then! 
Must two lives be spoiled for the sake of form? If 
Helmar was too blind to perceive his own selfish nature, 
must Nora be compelled to sacrifice her individuality 
for his sake? He was just as complacent at the end 
as in the beginning. He looked for no miracle. He 
could see only that he was right, and everybody else 
was wrong, and throughout the play he did not so 
much as try to understand what his wife was talking 
about. She was courageous to take the step she did. 
Few could have done it. 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


29 


“What do you say if we drive out to the house,” 
Kelso suggested. “There will be time for a little 
dancing.” 

“When?” Evelyn inquired. 

“Now!” 

“I don’t dance,” Mr. Liggett confided, “but I can 

• ? * 

sing. 

“Oh, let’s go!” Betty exclaimed. 

“Got any stuff?” Mr. Liggett inquired again. 

“Plenty! Will you come, Mrs. Colman?” 

“Really, I think I must go home. I am sorry, but 
I told Bert to wait for me.” 

“Call him up and tell him you won’t be home right 
away,” proposed Kelso. 

“I would not want to do that-” 

“Oh, come, Edith! Kelso will drive you home. It 
will be all right,” said Evelyn. 

Edith hesitated. She knew what she ought to do, 
but she felt an irresistible impulse to yield to the 
Wheatons. To her this was the essence of adventure. 
Perhaps, too, she lacked the courage to refuse. 

“You call him—” she suggested timidly. 

“And tell him we are stealing his little wife for an 
hour or two,” Doris amended, glancing at Edith to 
see the effect of her words. 

She murmured her assent and Kelso stood up. He 
was not gone long and when he returned it was with 
the assurance that everything was satisfactory. Calling 
the waiter he asked for the check. 

“Let’s go!” he said then, and followed them out 
of the room. 



Ill 


“tF I am to act as head-waiter here, some of you 
transients have to help me,” Kelso declared as 
he removed his coat and started for the kitchen. 
“What’ll it be? Horse’s neck?” 

“Not for me, please,” protested Edith. It was the 
first independent assertion of the evening, but it proved 
to be only fluttering protest. 

“Oh, go on!” Betty taunted. “One can’t hurt you. 
It’ll make you sleep better.” 

“Little liniment for me,” squeaked Henry Liggett, 
and the head-waiter disappeared. 

In the meantime some one started the phonograph, 
and Betty and Doris began to dance. The rugs were 
rolled up and piled in a heap in a corner. Edith 
moved out of the way of the dancers to the other side 
of the room, where stood an Empire sofa against the 
wall, beneath a Raphael Madonna, and sat down to 
watch the performance. But she soon found herself 
more interested in the tasteful furnishings and rich ap¬ 
pointments about her. It was a large room, extending 
from the front of the house to the garden in the rear. 
The furnishings were rich, antique mahogany uphol¬ 
stered in rose corded silk and satin damask, the ma¬ 
jority of the pieces being genuine antiques. From 
overhead the light filtered through decorated panels of 


30 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


3i 


frosted glass built into the ceiling, which shed a soft 
glow over the white walls and polished floors. An 
open piano stood at one end and across the way was 
the main staircase, with mahogany rail and carved white 
enameled balustrades rising to a landing where a tall, 
antique clock ticked out its hourly appreciation of so 
attractive an environment. She looked at the clock. It 
was midnight. When had she been out of her own 
home at midnight? 

There had been times when she could not have looked 
on at such a function as this without feeling conscious 
of being incapable of enjoying it, but to-night she really 
wanted to enter into these festivities. Heretofore her 
life had been dull and prosaic, with nothing of the 
unnatural or unconventional to startle or dazzde her* 
and the contrast which this moment afforded reminded 
her that she had been deprived of many recreations in 
her seclusion. These deprivations arose before her 
now with the ugliness of failure. These others knew 
how to enjoy themselves in an innocent way without 
violating any of the principles of decorum; they ex¬ 
tracted enough amusement from the vanities of the 
world to make up for its miseries! Ordinarily she 
would have been shocked at her own silliness, but now 
this did not annoy her in the least. Of course some 
people would gasp at the thought of a midnight party, 
but they were the people of her own narrow and biased 
world. There was another set where people put on 
less pretense, yet where things moved at a faster pace, 
where everything was pitched in a higher key, where 
there was more good-nature, less rivalry, and keener 


32 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


capacity for enjoyment. She was in the midst of it 
now; it tempted her with its tinseled draperies, its easy 
promiscuity, the while it taunted her with her simple 
and narrow outlook. 

She recalled how her mother, hearing of some out¬ 
rageous house-party in the West End where the guests 

. . 4 

indulged in dissolute dances until dawn, or played 
bridge all night and well into the next day, risking 
hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars, exclaimed, 
“That’s a set for you! And we are supposed to look 
up to them!’’ But this remembrance was not pleasant 
—it was too sweeping, too untrue. Even she, at one 
time, had been led to believe that the Country Club 
was a notorious place, where the wildest revels were 
frequently indulged in under the pretext of sport, where 
scandalous balls and hops were held at which young 
girls disported themselves wantonly, in which no person 
could claim membership unless he had money enough 
to cover up indecency. But these notions were all false. 

They were not all indecent. Doris and Betty, step¬ 
ping gracefully and modestly across the floor, were 
refined ladies. It was true that there were some who 
lived like profligates, some whose conduct and character 
clearly justified her mother’s repugnance, but they were 
not peculiar to one class. In her own nondescript and 
unsophisticated world there were folks just as bad. She 
knew the Wheatons, she felt proud of their friendship. 
They did not snub her, or make her feel uncomfortable 
because of her inferior station. They made her ac¬ 
quainted with all their friends. Now they had invited 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


33 

her to their house, and she found them the most agree¬ 
able of companions. 

She paused in the midst of her reverie to watch 
Kelso, coming with a tray in his outstretched hands. 
Henry Liggett rose to meet him, and taking a couple 
of glasses brought one of them to her. 

“Really, Mr. Liggett,” she pleaded, “I don’t care 
for any; not now, please.” 

“Don’t be foolish! This will never blind you, nor 
any one else! Everybody is taking one. Don’t be 
conspicuous.” 

He looked at her so kindly that she was encouraged 
to take it. 

“Do you know,” he said, smiling as he sat beside 
her, “I am glad you came to-night. There is something 
refreshing about you. Tell me, do you visit here regu¬ 
larly?” 

“No, I have not been here often—at least for any 
length of time,” she quickly corrected. “It is so hard 
for me to go anywhere. When one has a small child 
one has to stay pretty much at home.” 

“Ah! You have a child!” 

“Yes.” 

“What greater happiness could you ask? A dear 
little one to brighten one’s days! And to make you 
want to live for something!” 

She pondered over this. “Yes, she is a dear,” she 
said. 

“Don’t spoil her,” he cautioned in his paternal way. 
Coming from his lips it sounded proper enough. 
“Don’t let some one else bring her up for you, or form 


34 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


her ideas for her. Make her your own, lest when she 
comes of age she will be forced to confess that she 
never knew you. Don’t do that. She is yours. Watch 
her grow.” 

Edith found herself actively interested in this man. 
She took to him instantly. His humorously puckered 
eyes and smile-wrinkled face fascinated her, and made 
her feel at ease with him, to such an extent that she 
was curious. He had been married before, she had 
been told, and she wondered if he had any grown-up 
sons or daughters. 

“Are you fond of children?” she asked, rather 
timidly venturing the question. 

“Very!” he answered. “I never had any of my own 
but I am fond of them just the same.” 

Again she would have liked to ask him how long 
he had known the present Mrs. Liggett, but dared not. 
Presently, however, he said: 

“Do you think it strange that an old man like me 
should want to marry the second time? I am sixty, 
although I look older. The reason is not far to seek. 
No one can understand what it means to get old with 
no one to comfort him, no children to manifest any 
interest in him in the evening of life. People ridicule 
an old codger seeking a young wife, but one would have 
to live through it to appreciate what loneliness means. 
I had a big house, all to myself. There were servants 
who came and went, but there was no one I could 
depend upon to fetch me a glass of water when I fell 
ill. That’s the time you realize it. As long as you 
are well and hearty you don’t mind, but when sickness 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


35 


overtakes you! When pneumonia got me I was moved 
out of the house to the hospital. They said it was 
the best place for me. There I met Miss Rowe and 
she nursed me back to health. Later she consented to 
marry me.” 

So that was the story of the Liggetts! She had 
been his nurse after all, and married him for— What? 
Because she pitied him, took compassion on him, or 
was it from a more selfish motive? He had not long 
to live—he possessed considerable money— She 
stopped again. This was unfair to the girl, it was 
uncharitable to think such things. Raising the iced 
liquid to her lips she sipped it slowly. 

“You were lucky to find her,” she said, “I like your 
wife very much.” 

“Do you?” he asked, his eyes brightening. “I am 
glad to hear you say that. Of course I do not expect 
her to give her time to me exclusively. Youth must 
have its fling, of course; it wants the society of its 
kind.” 

Edith looked across the room, to where Mrs. Liggett 
sat exchanging gay banter with Kelso. She could not 
help observing the striking beauty of the woman. She 
was like a Grecian goddess, hair raven black, brought 
low on the cheeks, eyebrows arched and delicate, nose 
small and straight, chin firm, color like the blush of 
a peach in bloom. Her eyes seemed deep and soulful, 
her mouth was large, an almost infallible sign of gen¬ 
erosity of mind and feeling. The more Edith studied 
her, the more she was surprised and delighted. It 


36 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

was small wonder her admirers were numberless, and 
followed her as if drawn by an irresistible attraction. 

To the remaining members of the party Edith was 
paying but little heed until her eyes met Kelso’s. He 
waved to her, crying aloud, “What’s the matter, Mrs. 
Colman? You look terribly pensive.” 

The remark roused her, and she smiled back at him 
sweetly. Some one put on another record, and Kelso 
advanced to her side and asked if she cared to dance. 
She nodded her assent and looked around for a place 
to set her glass. His gesture restrained her. 

“Finish it,” he commanded, “and we’ll have some 
more.” 

She laughed with him, and raising the glass to her 
lips peered at him above its edge. Coquetry took hold 
of her; it lifted her above the lazy sense of pleasure, 
and she felt like swinging from the sofa into his arms 
and away across the floor. She passed the empty 
tumbler to him without a word and allowed herself 
to be assisted from her place. They fell into step at 
once. 

“What do you think,” he asked, suddenly; “can a 
woman be partial to a man without his knowing it?” 

“If the woman is wise enough,” she replied. 

“That’s just the point. Is she?” 

“Men are not blind. Some can read a woman’s 
thoughts.” 

“Do you think a man would fall in love with a 
woman with whom he sympathized?” 

“Possibly—other things being equal.” 

He met her eyes, and she flushed a little. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


37 

“I saw you studying Mrs. Liggett. What impres¬ 
sion did you form of her?” 

“She’s adorable. What made her marry him? He’s 
splendid and all that, but too old. What she wants 
are youth and companionship and romance.” 

“Think so?” 

“That’s the way she impresses me.” 

“Well,” he opined, “you’re not supposing she hopes 
to spend all her days leading him about by the hand?” 

“She was willing to marry him—or was it just his 
money? He has money, hasn’t he?” 

“Oodles of it.” 

She laughed. He drew back his head with a respon¬ 
sive flash. 

“What are you laughing at?” he asked. “Does it 
seem ridiculous?” 

“I was thinking she would have to wait long before 
inheriting his money.” 

“She is having a good time,” he protested. “They 
travel extensively and meet many people, and these 
afford her a great deal of amusement. Then she may 
leave him some time, with alimony. It may be worth 
the experiment.” 

“Who wants marriages of experiment? They’re 
bound not to turn out well.” 

“She’s a mighty clever woman—and a clever woman 
can usually have what she sets her heart on.” 

“Are we as bad as that?” 

“Often!” he rejoined. 

Edith was unusually pleased with the attentions 
bestowed upon her by Kelso Wheaton—she preferred 


38 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

him to the genial but venerable Henry Liggett. Kelso 
had always made much of her, but she had never before 
seen him so alert, so responsive, so devoted. She was 
aware that this display of feeling was a form of self- 
complacency, but even this afforded her consolation, in 
the knowledge that she still possessed charm enough 
to content the connoisseur of women that she knew him 
to be. She essayed no further talk but closed her eyes, 
and abandoned herself to this deep feeling of pleasure. 
There was no thought of the hour, she considered only 
the fact that she was having a good time, a splendid 
time, with no one to answer to or tremble before as 
a result of her merriment. What a wonderful sensa¬ 
tion is unrestrained liberty of action! The sort of 
freedom that lets you do what you want, as long as 
you w r ant to do it, without any fear of being called to 
account for it! That was the way she felt, carefree, 
light-hearted, indifferent to criticism, intent only on the 
fleeting pleasures of the night. Never a thought came 
to her of what her husband was doing, or what he 
might say, or how she would return to him, or whether 
Babs was asleep. It was past two o’clock, but in the 
whirl of the dance she was not conscious of it. She 
still had the strength and loveliness of youth, and this 
compensated in some degree for the delights she had 
forfeited in the past five years. It was not her fault 
if she had been a recluse—but she meant to be a recluse 
no longer. 

She liked her companions, their elegance, their ease, 
their informality. No rules bound their coming or 
going, no conventionality restricted their delightful free- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


39 


dom. And this in spite of the fact that they were 
dominant figures in the world where such formalities 
were, as a rule, scrupulously insisted upon, the only 
world she really cared for—and because they seemed 
willing, even anxious, to admit her to their ranks! She 
admired them and their standards, she was almost 
ready to accept their opinions and beliefs, to approve 
their methods and interests. They were the kind of 
people she had always wanted to know, for she hoped, 
through the influence of association and imitation, to 
identify herself with their personnel and habit and 
thus advance from the tedious environment of a man¬ 
ner of living that had held her captive for too long. 

The room was growing uncomfortably warm she 
thought, so warm in fact that she asked to be excused 
from further dancing. She knew her face and neck 
were flushed; she could feel the burning of her skin 
and she wanted to rest a bit. Kelso offered to fetch 
her a cooling drink, but she refused. It was half past 
two; the music was still going. Some one suggested 
a song, and they gathered about the piano. But Edith 
did not feel like singing; it was too much of an effort, 
and she plucked Kelso’s sleeve and motioned him to 
the sofa. 

“Have you made plans for the summer—the whole 
of it?” she asked, knowing well that she and her hus¬ 
band spent it at their shore cottage. 

“Next summer! Why, we usually go to Southend 
you know-” 

“All the time? No side trips?” 

“Oh, well, now and again-” 




40 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Can’t you steal a week with us?” 

“Where is your place?” he asked. 

“It’s called Spring Lake, up in the Berkshires, the 
prettiest in the world.” 

“What’s pretty about it?” 

“The air and the white birch, and the water when 
the sun is shining.” 

“Oh! Any fish?” 

“Lots of them.” 

“What do you mean by ‘lots’? Any salmon?” 

“I guess so. And there is bass.” 

“Anywhere near the Trail?” 

“No, no! It’s only about fifty miles from here.” 

“I should be glad to go. Bass? Oh boy! That’s 
the greatest thrill in the world. Get a big one on the 
end of your line and, believe me, you know you’ve got 
something.” 

He kindled a cigarette and the match lighted up the 
grin on his face, a grin of enthusiasm and delight. 

“You are spirited about everything you do, aren’t 
you?” 

“Me? Shucks! I love fishing, if that is what you 
mean, and golf and all sports-” 

“Indoor?” 

“Sure! Bridge, pool-” 

“Hearts?” 

He looked at her, curiously. 

“How many, for instance, have you at this moment 
dangling from the ends of your lines?” 

“Really, Mrs. Colman,” he answered, playing for 
time, “you flatter me. Lines! A pretty figure!” 

“Ah—ah—ah!” she interjected, holding up a re- 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


4 1 

proving finger. “You mustn’t tell lies. God does not 
like a boy who tells lies.” 

“God doesn’t bother about me! He has enough to 
do-” 

“He takes care of everybody—you, too.” 

“Well, I feel sorry for Him. My father used to 
say that whenever I did anything. He wanted me to 
go into the factory to learn the business from the 
ground up. Imagine working at a machine all day 
long! I wanted to go to Harvard-” 

“And had your way?” 

“Of course.” 

“I should think you would marry and settle down.” 

“What’s the use?” 

“Some nice girl would be glad to share this home 
with you-” 

kk That’s the point; it is not mine to share. Besides 
I want to be sure that I would be happy. I was made 
to be happy, you know.” 

“Let me give you a piece of advice. When you 
marry don’t neglect her. Some young husbands I know 
love their wives devotedly, but they give to their work 
more attention and devotion than they are accustomed 
to give to their helpmates. Naturally, this piques a 
young wife, and unless she is extraordinarily strong of 
will she will seek amusement where she should not.” 

“Yes,” he replied, “I know that, but I’ve heard of 
young wives who, immediately after the ceremony say 
to themselves, ‘Well, I’m married now. I don’t have 
to attract him any more.’ They are slovenly in their 
attire and unpolished in their manner. They never 
think of the means they used to employ to fascinate 





42 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

their lovers. A .man wants a presentable wife. He 
likes to be surprised with something different every 
day. And when he does not find it, what does he do ? 
Goes elsewhere in disgust. So you see there is much 
to be said on both sides.” 

“Yes, but the men are most to blame for the present 
condition of things. For the man the world is his 
arenao The poor wife never sets her foot outside of 
the house. She is semi-imprisoned in a place where 
she meets the same people day after day, where she 
goes through the same old routine of baking, cooking, 
making beds and polishing furniture. Naturally, she 
wants a little relaxation. But her husband has his 
business or his club and his interests and ambitions lie 
there. Then comes the danger point, w T hen the wife 
meets a young man of nice appearance and manners 
who manifests more than ordinary interest in her. She 
seeks his company-” 

She ceased quickly. The lights seemed to grow dim; 
a sickly feeling stole over her. She felt the blood 
leaving her head, an icy cold settling across her brow. 
A sensation of nausea took hold of her and she groped 
for her handkerchief. 

“I am afraid—I am ill. Please-” 

He caught hold of her, startled. She did look ill. 
He called his sisters, then, and they brought her up¬ 
stairs while he stood by, staring, bewildered. Turning 
to Henry Liggett he said: 

“How did that happen? How did she become ill?” 

“Poor child! She is not used to this,” explained the 
older man. “And she is not over strong.” 




IV 


T HE next day was Sunday. Edith came home to 
face an ordeal. 

“What’s the matter?” Bert exclaimed, as 
soon as they were alone. “Where have you been?” 

“You know well enough where I’ve been,” she re¬ 
plied tartly, knowing him to be in bad humor. “They 
’phoned.” 

“Yes, to tell me you were going out to their house 
for a while.” 

“Well, that is where I was-” 

“All night?” 

“Wasn’t it better to stay than to come home at two 
o’clock in the morning? That would look fine to our 
neighbors, wouldn’t it? Imagine driving up to the 
door at that hour!” 

He glanced at her, at her lids drooping in lassitude, 
at the dark pencilings of fatigue under her eyes, the 
morbid pallor of her face. She evidently had had no 
sleep. 

“You look as if you’ve been up all night,” he said. 
“Do I?” 

“Have you been to church?” 

“No!” 

He made no further comment, but he was greatly 


43 



44 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


troubled. He fumbled awkwardly with the little gold 
chain that hung across his breast, his brows contracted. 
Not a muscle in his frame moved save for the fingers, 
playing idly with the little gold chain. 

“You ought to know better,” he went on quietly. 
“It isn't very edifying for a woman to be out all night 
and then stay in bed all Sunday morning.” 

“It was unavoidable. I just couldn’t run into the 
house and run out again—but there isn’t any use trying 
to explain. You either can’t understand, or you don’t 
want to.” 

The taunt moved him. “I can understand this much: 
I don’t want it to happen again,” he said impulsively. 

“Indeed!” 

“I’m not the idiot you think me; neither are you so 
simple that you must be led about by the hand-” 

“Nor lectured by you, either, if that is what you 
think you are doing.” 

He looked at her. “You are a strong-minded w t o- 
man, Edith, and you always want your own way. You 
will have it in this, too. I am not trying to lecture 
you so much as to point out the futility of your trying 
to mix with these Wheatons.” 

“I am not ashamed to admit that I want to mix with 
them. Why not? A man boasts of his ability to make 
a team, or join a club-” 

“But that is different. Fie gets something for his 
money-” 

“I expect to be compensated.” 

“In what way, please-?” 

“Well, I shall have entree into the best houses-” 







THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


45 


“Yes?” 

“And meet the people who are worth while.” 

“But do you think you can afford it—to keep up 
with them, I mean? Don’t you understand you will 
have to pay for what you get? You w T ant to go about 
with the rich—to eat their dinners, smoke their ciga¬ 
rettes, too, I presume (they all do it), ride in their 
expensive cars, dance and play golf with them—but 
don’t you suppose this is going to cost you money? 
You will have to spend, too. You must wear becoming 
clothes and a whole lot of them, otherwise you will 
soon be dropped. We can’t afford it, Edith. First 
thing you know you will be borrowing money to meet 
your debts.” 

She was silent. She needed time to determine her 
next move, but her brain was in a whirl. 

“I’m sick of this, anyhow. You never take me any¬ 
where. You stick around the house all night long, you 
never think of making life any way pleasant-” 

“I haven’t the time; besides, when I come home I 
am tired. Neither of us will suffer from confinement, 
it seems to me. The man that is true to his fireside 
is true to his wife and everything else. I have enough 
to do to keep me occupied; so have you, with a child 
to attend to. And you haven’t even asked for her 
yet-” 

“Oh, I know she is all right as long as she is with 
you.” 

He took this in silence; then he said, “You needn’t 
be so sarcastic!” 

“You’re impossible! I can’t talk to you! There 




46 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

was a time when you were nice—before we were mar¬ 
ried-” 

“Oh, that stuff!” he interrupted her with an impa¬ 
tient laugh. “Things are different now.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t know you. People 
never get to know each other until they live together. 
They told me I would not be happy-” 

“Happy! Is that the reason you stay out all night, 
because you are bored to death, because I am too plain 
for you, because I don’t dance or give a rap about these 
society folks? You know what my income is, and you 
know a man’s luxuries are limited by his income. The 
Wheatons are rich. They can afford all these things. 
I can’t. That’s not my fault.” 

“It’s not my fault either if I want these things. I 
can’t stand the house all day. It unnerves me, and 
I’m not going to bear it any longer.” 

The violence of her words amazed him. To hear 
her talk in this fashion was unusual, and he turned oi> 
her with an astonished stare. 

“Edith, what are you saying? Please don’t raise 
your voice like that. People will hear you-” 

“I’m as calm as you are,” she flung back at him. 
Her eyes had turned coal-black and flashed fire as she 
gazed at him coolly, without a tremor. “We might 
as well have this thing out now. We’ve had enough 
of this, or I have. I’ve sacrificed a whole lot for you. 
I came down to your level and there I have been floun¬ 
dering about for the past six or seven years. Now, 
I’m going to assert myself. You’ll get me a maid, pay 
her a decent salary, and let her run the house; cook, 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


47 


wait on table, wash the dishes, care for the baby. I 
shall manage the house as before, but let some one 
else do the work.” 

He accepted this generously enough, much to her 
surprise. “Oh! all right, then!” he said. “Let us 
have a maid if you want one. How much do they 
get?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“See what you can do. You know where to get 
them. I’ll agree to anything reasonable. I only object 
to such conduct as last night’s-” 

“Oh, forget that! I’ve heard enough of it. I’m 
more interested now in the maid-” 

“And I told you you could have her.” 

“Thank you! You are getting human,” and she 
arose with a half suppressed smile and went up to her 
room. 

She started to put away her things, in that little 
bedroom with its American walnut furniture and bev¬ 
eled mirrors encased in the doors, and the brightly col¬ 
ored cretonne window draperies. In her heart of 
hearts she regretted more than anything else the episode 
of the preceding night, yet she could not bring herself 
to acknowledge it to her husband. When she came 
home she had been penitent enough. But at the look 
on his face, at his grave, superior manner, something 
within her rose and transformed her contrition into 
contempt. It made her more determined than ever not 
to let him see her compunction and she feigned an in¬ 
difference she was far from feeling. Wouldn’t he have 
been pleased to see her fall at his feet, acknowledge her 




48 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

fault and plead for forgiveness? The thought amused 
her. 

It was not natural for her to countenance an unbe¬ 
coming action, she would have recoiled from the merest 
suggestion of wrong-doing as from a kind of sin, still 
she did not feel wholly to blame now, inasmuch as 
she always had been impulsive, doing queer things on the 
slightest notice. Circumstances played a large part in 
her life. She believed herself to be a creature of 
destiny for whom everything was preordained. Often, 
it seemed to her, she would hear some bland voice 
whispering honeyed syllables into her ear, bidding her 
cast aside the conventions that circumscribed her ambi¬ 
tions and interests, and launch forth into the gay billows 
of freedom and unrestraint. She had never yielded to 
these truant promptings until last night. Left to her 
deliberate self she might have refused the invitation 
to go to Westlawn, but once arrived there, she threw 
all care to the winds and abandoned herself with enthu¬ 
siastic delight to the pleasures of the evening. Bert 
told her she could not be led about by the hand, but 
she wondered if this were wholly true. 

As for becoming ill, it served her right. She knew 
better than to drink liquor; even during the exhilarat¬ 
ing days of her college career she could not touch it. 
But now everybody seemed to be partial to its use. 
No party was complete unless intoxicants were served. 
All seemed to enjoy liquor—as if they were getting the 
best of the Government. Had she not danced with 
Kelso she might have escaped disaster, but the room 
was warm and she was overtired. Things had changed 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


49 


in the years of her wedded life. They moved faster, 
the fun was different. One would be terribly old- 
fashioned nowadays to insist on the standards of the 
ante-bellum days—those exacting conventions were gone 
forever. 

Kelso was a splendid fellow, kind, sympathetic, sen¬ 
sible. If she had come home to him he would not have 
blustered and brayed about it, but would have passed 
it off as a good joke. She did not know any better, 
he would have told her, for he understood her, had 
made it apparent that he believed in her. If she had 
been indiscreet enough to make a mistake he was broad¬ 
minded enough to make allowances for it. She stood 
before the mirror—pleased with herself for what she 
had done. He was interested in her—and she enjoyed 
that. It was going to be delightful, this kind of friend¬ 
ship, where neither of them would be obliged to resort 
to artifice or deceit, or to concealment. For the first 
time in years something within her was roused to action, 
some starved sentiment that had lain buried in the 
recesses of her heart. 

Here was romance indeed! To awake in the morn¬ 
ing in an expectant mood, to wonder what new experi¬ 
ences the day would bring! The vague longings of 
youth had not been entirely killed. They were still 
alive, still potent. Now she would have more time to 
herself. She would have time to visit in the afternoon, 
time to meet more people, time to devote her energies 
to charitable works in company with others of conse¬ 
quence in the city. She had waited long enough for it! 
But Robert had fumed and fretted so every time she 


So THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

talked of getting a maid, that she was sick and tired 
hearing him. Penuriousness! He could not afford to 
give her a maid, but he could afford to dabble in poli¬ 
tics. That was all right, of course. Besides, he argued, 
there was no need of any help in the home. He was 
away all day, and dinner in the evening was the only 
meal that had to be prepared. She had nothing to do 
but care for the house! Babs was a problem, but she 
was getting bigger, and would soon be able to help 
herself. It was the future of which he continually re¬ 
minded her, for which he was trying to lay a little aside 
from time to time with faithful regularity. He never 
stopped to consider how much he spent on himself. 
Men never do until it is brought home to them. She 
was glad this thing had happened, for if they had not 
exchanged words she doubted whether he would have 
consented to her proposition so readily. What became 
clearest of all was that the future was going to be 
different. Life was going to be more real, more at¬ 
tractive* more stimulating. She smiled to herself, as 
she threw off her gown and sat down before the dresser 
to arrange her hair. 

Think of it! To-day, if the promised maid were 
here she—Edith—would at this moment be making 
herself ready for dinner, instead of having to get into a 
house-dress and go down to cook it! Luckily, they 
were going to have a broiled dinner. Everything would 
be late, of course, and there would be another row, but 
she was determined to hand back just what she received. 
She meant to let him see who would have the last word 
in these matters, even at the cost of her serenity of 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


5i 

mind. It was too bad she had to miss church, but even 
that couldn’t be helped! 

Bert, however, was very agreeable during dinner and 
chatted in a jovial way. “There is one thing about 
you,” he said. “It doesn’t take you long to do any¬ 
thing once you get started.” 

“Next week,” she reminded him, “we shall sit down 
to a regular dinner. We should have done it long 
ago.” 

“Yes, I suppose we should. But it never entered my 
mind. It will make a difference, won’t it?” 

Sh£ looked at him across the table in despair. How 
like him! 

“Your worst fault is that you don’t know there is 
such a thing as a house existing. As long as everything 
runs smoothly, the bills kept down, the meals on time, 
your clothes cleaned and pressed and laid out for you, 
the fire going in the cellar and the lights burning 
throughout the house, you never bother your head how 
these things are happening or who is taking care of 
them. It is only when something takes place out of 
the ordinary, like a cup falling from the shelf and 
crashing into bits on the floor, that you look up and in¬ 
quire what has happened.” 

“It doesn’t so much matter about the how. The 
fact is that you are here—that’s enough, isn’t it?” 

“That’s just it. If I weren’t here—what then?” 

“I’m not supposed to know about these things-” 

“You’re supposed to know that one person can’t do 
everything. I don’t mind doing these things, but you 



52 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

ought to be decent about it and show some apprecia¬ 
tion.” 

“Is it a set of resolutions you want-?” 

“That’s what makes me mad—you’re so downright 
complacent, so-” 

He laughed; they both laughed—for they saw the 
humor of it at the same time. 

That evening when Dr. Dahill came in she has¬ 
tened to tell him her big piece of news. He congratu¬ 
lated her on her victory, and remarked aloud that it 
should have happened years ago. 

The doctor had the apartment adjoining the^ Col- 
mans. He was unmarried, and lived with his mother. 
Surgery was his specialty and skilled he was in the 
science. Morning after morning he spent in the hos¬ 
pital cutting away disease and decay from human 
bodies, cleansing, draining, cauterizing infected areas. 
And every night, returning from his daily toil, he 
stopped into the Colmans’ on his way home. A friend¬ 
ship had been formed between the two men that was 
sincere and dignified, never profaned by anything 
worldly. They met and chatted, thought and planned 
as thousands of other men do who feel pride in the 
accomplishments of one another as if they were their 
own. 

“I was at the theater last night,” Edith told him. 

“What was the play?” 

“A Doll’s House! What do you think of Ibsen?” 

“Hits the nail forcibly on the head, doesn’t he?” 

“It had to be done. Really, there was no other way 
out of it-” 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


53 


“Except diplomacy.” 

“Helmar did not know what it meant. Don’t you 
admire Ibsen?” 

“A great dramatist, but productive of much harm.” 

“Yet he is wonderful-” 

“I can’t agree with you. No man is wonderful who 
is bent on destroying the existing order of things. The 
great men of the world have built up, not torn down.” 

“He is a realist. He depicts society boldly, just as 
it is-” 

“It is the office of the dramatist not alone to record 
life but to interpret it for our edification.” 

“Oh, I know. But don’t you consider it a service to 
humanity to picture the sore spots of our nature as 
they are?” 

“Life is not a failure. Why make it appear so?” 

It was unusual for the doctor to utter more than a 
few words at a time on any subject. Whatever he had 
to say was expressed with laconic dispatch, often by 
analogy. He was fond of one or two pet theories, to 
which he referred time and again. The one was that 
imperial Rome was the archetype of America, the other 
that this country was doomed to an unhappy fate be¬ 
cause of her like contempt for the sanctity of the home 
and the basic principles of the moral law. 

“It isn’t the stage alone,” he declared, “that makes 
vice attractive. The whole field of literature is over¬ 
sown with the cockle. The movies thrive on it.” 

“I sometimes wonder if the picture of modern life 
is as depressing as the pessimists paint it. We have 




54 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


been going to the dogs for the past twenty years, but 
we haven’t got there yet.” 

“It took five hundred years for Rome to decline.” 

“Oh, well! We have a long time yet.” 

Dr. Dahill reached for a cigar, bit the end from it, 
took a match from the silver holder standing on the 
table beside him and struck it. Meantime he looked 
curiously at Edith. His eyes rested on her slim white 
throat, her small, determined chin, on her large hazel- 
brown eyes full of expression. He thought he discov¬ 
ered a suggestion of ennui. There was a doubt in his 
mind concerning her peace and serenity. Even in the 
light of her good sense and judgment he questioned 
the fixity of her future happiness. She resembled one 
whose heart held sway over all her faculties. He knew 
her to be easily led by her whims, and she coveted the 
blossoms that hung the highest. Behind that beautiful 
brow there were thoughts which he Avould have liked 
to read, for her manner seemed indicative now of un¬ 
rest and discontent. 

“I’m thinking of taking up riding lessons next week,” 
she confided to him. 

“So!” he replied. This was part of it. 

“Do you play golf?” she asked, then; “I am going 
to learn this spring.” 

“It seems to me you will have a busy time of it. 
What are you going to do?” he asked Bert, seated 
away from him, under the parchment shade. 

“Oh, I’m going to keep house with the new maid.” 


V 


B LESSED was the springtime when it came at the 
close of that unusually severe winter. The sun 
climbed higher and higher, to the topmost parts 
of the immeasurable blue, and beamed ecstatically, 
kindling the shadows lingering tardily on the hills and 
valleys into tenuous outlines of mellow light. Heaven 
smiled on the dainty green of the woodlands, where 
tints were being laid on with a lavish hand; on the tran¬ 
quil woods, where impetuous buds were bursting on the 
branches of the trees, like so many thousands of golden 
fairy buttons. The moss-grown willows were already 
arrayed in festal attire. Soon they would be followed 
by the forsythia, the lilac-shrubs, the magnolias and the 
maples. Everywhere the fields were strewn with vio» 
lets and anemones. The crows betook themselves to 
the remote depths of the woods, and yielded to the 
smaller songsters whose outbursts of melody were glad¬ 
dening the hearts of men like a brook let loose over 
the frozen countryside. The world was glad, and so 
was man. For the sunshine of youth was revisiting his 
haunts and bowers in the prettiest season of the year. 

Edith stood at her bedroom window one fine morn¬ 
ing watching the transformation of nature, and mar¬ 
veling at the beauty of earth and sky. The freshness 
and happiness of the world were reflected in her smile. 


55 


5 6 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


She shared transports of ecstasy with the earth the 
while she had a vision of herself carried away on its 
bosom to ramble through its fields and hollows. For 
she had been invited to play golf that day as a guest 
of the Wheatons, and to dine with them later at the 
Country Club. Nowhere was the scenery more won¬ 
derful than at the Club, where there was just enough 
artificial arrangement employed to make the landscape 
perfect. Colman was unable to accompany her, but 
did not object to her going. He was too busy to daw¬ 
dle away his time with sports, and besides he had an 
important case to argue before the courts that very 
morning. 

Early in the afternoon the Wheatons called for her. 
In her tweed suit and hat, so discreetly conspicuous, so 
apparently negligent, yet so studied, she seemed 
younger, simpler, and prettier than ever before. No 
one could accuse her of vanity if she took a special 
pride in her trim figure, for it lent youth to her appear¬ 
ance and buoyancy to her step. She looked the part of 
an athletic girl, notwithstanding the fact that she had 
never held a golf club in her hand before. The game 
was not so popular when she had been younger, but she 
hoped to be able to master it as she had mastered ten¬ 
nis. They agreed to play a foursome with Kelso as 
her partner in order that he might teach her the differ¬ 
ent methods of play as they went around. Evelyn and 
Doris drove off while she watched them. Then Kelso 
made her practice addressing the ball several times be¬ 
fore driving. She proved to be an apt pupil, and sue- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


57 


ceeded in meeting the ball squarely, sending it out a 
short distance onto the fairway. 

“Don’t look up,” he cautioned her. “Look! This 
way!” and he took a stance and swung at an imaginary 
ball in true form. 

It was a picturesque course, rolling and wrinkled as 
a brown velvet carpet, with clusters of trees grouped 
at certain intervals, and dense woods fringing the bor¬ 
ders like a lace hem. The day was perfect, clear and 
invigorating, and distances were accurately discernible. 
Immense clouds, like packs of wool, moved lazily across 
the heavens, their whiteness dazzling the sight, while the 
surrounding hills stood out sharply against the horizon 
in uniform relief against the pale blue of the distant 
sky. Only a few players could be seen on the links, a 
twosome playing on the ninth green and a foursome 
marching hurriedly across the fourth fairway. 

Evelyn and Doris had gone on ahead to locate their 
drives. Kelso joined Edith and lent his hand to assist 
her down the rugged slope. 

“It was good of you to come to-day,” he remarked. 

“That shows you wanted me to,” she returned gayly. 

“Why don’t you get Bert to take up golf?” he sug¬ 
gested. 

“He wouldn’t bother. You know how odd he is. 
There is no sporting blood in him. I believe he does 
not know how to play any game.” 

“He works hard.” 

“Yes, but that is all. He thinks of nothing but the 
office—and politics.” 


58 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“He plays that game, eh? A rather expensive sport, 
I should say!” 

“That’s what I keep telling him, but he pays no at¬ 
tention to me. He thinks he is going to run for Con¬ 
gress this fall.” 

“Indeed! Can he get the nomination?” 

“I don’t know. He doesn’t say much about himself. 
But he did say that.” 

For the next shot he advised her to use an iron, 
demonstrating the way to address the ball. His inter¬ 
est was conspicuous, as he pointed out her defects. She 
did not turn her shoulders, but kept them stiff and, 
naturally enough, he took hold of them and twisted 
them about until they had been properly placed. 

“Don’t move your head or feet,” he cautioned her, 
“and keep your eye on the ball.” 

Kelso was courtly to the extreme—and in polite be¬ 
havior he was unsurpassed. During the preliminary 
stages of the game, he gave every indication that he 
was content and pleased with the turn events had taken 
in the course of the afternoon. He paired with Mrs. 
Colman against his two sisters. The professional 
golfer could not be located at the club house and this 
gave him the opportunity to play the part of instructor 
himself. There were no caddies—it was too early in 
the season and the boys had not yet begun to come 
out—and this let him caddy for her and walk beside 
her the whole way round. They were beginning to 
know each other quite well, but there seemed to be 
no surfeit of enjoyment in one another’s company. He 
made her feel the ardor of his interest, and this stimu- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 59 

lated her vanity. He waited upon her until she com¬ 
pleted every play and watched the ball to mark it. He 
encouraged her constantly whenever she dubbed a shot 
or drove into the rough, and he congratulated her on 
every good play. It was impossible for her to feel ner¬ 
vous or self-conscious, so inspiring and assuring was 
his guidance. 

For the moment this attitude of his affected her vis¬ 
ibly. She began to hum under her breath indifferently 
fearing lest he detect the nature of her thoughts. 
It was not as if she were afraid of what he might do 
that troubled her so much as the extent to which this 
show of kindness would go. Had she any right to 
accept these demonstrations of particular friendship? 
The spirit of conquest intoxicated her and took away 
all sense of responsibility. She could not deny that she 
had been drawn to him by the narrowness of her own 
life and the advantages of his—but neither of these 
accounted for his continued evidences of interest and 
preferment. She could not help but observe them. It 
did not seem possible that he could be this way with all, 
it could not be through sympathy alone that he was so 
gracious. The idea that he was not altogether outside 
the influence of her charms forced itself upon her. In 
the short while they had been friendly a remarkable 
sense of ease, of familiarity had grown up between 
them, as if some kind fate were exerting a powerful, 
subtle influence over them. What was this influence, 
whither would it lead? She could not know. And for 
the first time she began to experience a feeling of appre¬ 
hension and uncertainty. 


6o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“The best way to learn this game is to devote an 
hour or so each day to the mastery of each club,” he 
said, in his masterful voice. She was glad to hear him 
speak; it served to distract her from her uneasy con¬ 
jectures. “We should let you do nothing to-day but 
practice driving. Afterward we could take each iron, 
learn the stroke, and measure distances.” 

“But this is ever so much better,” she said. “Besides 
it makes sport for all of us. I don’t suppose I’ll ever 
want to play in a tournament.” 

“This is more unconventional.” He paused. “Does 
it strike you as—dangerous?” 

Her eyes questioned him. “Dangerous! In what 
w T ay t 

“Well—my playing golf with another man’s wife, 
for instance.” He laughed—and she joined him. 

“I have little respect for conventions, if that is what 
you mean. What harm is there?” 

“None, as far as I can see. But—there are people 
who will—talk.” 

\ 

“Let them. I did so want to come to-day! And every¬ 
thing has been perfectly lovely, thanks to you-” 

“There is nothing to thank me for,” he said. “It 
means a whole lot to have you with us.” 

She laughed, secretly pleased. He knew how to 
make such pretty speeches! 

“Look!” she cried. “Evelyn and Doris are on the 
green. We had better hurry!” 

“Take your time! Take your time!” 

At the third hole, the water hole, Edith encountered 
great difficulty. Her first shot dropped into the mid- 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 61 


die of the lake. Kelso supplied another ball and sugt 
gested that she try again. This fell in the same place. 
The third ball she dubbed, made a poor out and played 
her third shot short so that the ball fell into the pond 
and sank beneath the surface. 

“Isn’t that terrible!” she exclaimed. 

“You should have played a floater,” Doris advised. 

“If we had a boy here we might recover those balls,” 
Kelso said. “Here,” he added, dropping a ball at her 
third lie. “Shoot again!” 

“I positively won’t.” 

“You mustn’t give up like that. Play from here.” 

“No! I’ll let this hole go. You play it out.” 

“But every hole should be played. These hazards 
are scattered all through the course. They’re just like 
the hazards of life. Every one gets into trouble on the 
golf course—the test is getting out of it. That’s where 
nerve and steadfastness and determination tell.” 

“But I can never put the ball over—from back 
there.” 

“Everybody else does. Why not you?” 

“Others know how to play.” 

“Well, come along, then,” he concluded, and they 
headed for the green. 

“You know,” he said as they walked on together, 
“golf really calls for those qualities that we associate 
with manhood: decision, accuracy, perseverance, self- 
control. If a player lands in the rough he maintains 
composure in the face of difficulty and applies himself 
to meeting the unfortunate situation. On the fairway 


62 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

he is upright and honest. On the green, deliberate and 
sure. Every shot is played for what it is worth. 

“Is that why men love it:” 

“To some extent, yes.” 

Evelyn sunk hers for a three, but Kelso put his ball 
too hard and it rolled across the green. He failed on 
the next two and had to content himself with a five. 

“You would have a better score,” Doris reminded 
him, “if you were not so careless, lou throw away 
your game.” 

“What difference does it make?” he rejoined non- 
chalandy. “We are having a good time.'’ 

During the dinner which followed Kelso knew’ that 
he was more than interested in Edith Colman. A pas¬ 
sion for possession took hold of him. the selfish ambi¬ 
tion of a frivolous heart, hungry for fresh conquest 
with no other object but the desire of proprietorship. 
He longed to know* this woman, longed to dominate her 
thoughts. Were it not so ridiculously impossible, he 
would have made love to her for the mere excitement 
of it, but the more he studied her the more the thought 
of her fascinated him. The warm afternoon sun had 
brought the color to her face. She burned like a young 
maple in early fall. She looked more attractive than 
she had ever seemed to him, and her smile w*as very 
sweet. While she was conscious of his glances she was 
perfectly innocent of their meaning, interpreting them 
indeed, in her native simplicity, as indications of ad¬ 
miration and attention. 

“Well. Edith,” he remarked at last, with a pretense 
of casual negligence, “how did you enjoy the game?” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 63 

“It was wonderful !” she exclaimed. “I’m wild 
about it.'’ 

‘‘It does take hold of you," said Evelyn. 

“Would you care to try again—to-morrow?” he 
asked, raising his eyebrows inquiringly. 

“To-morrow?” pondered Edith. “I think I could 
manage it. You know my time is less taken up now 
than it used to be. Will you come, Evelyn and Doris?” 
She continued, “If I improve we may return the com¬ 
pliment of to-day’s defeat.” 

“If they don't care to come, let you and I try it to¬ 
gether. We shall be ready for them the next day.” 

“I’ll go!” Doris interposed, and Kelso dropped the 
subject. 

“You ought to join this Club, Edith. It could be 
managed,” Evelyn suggested, with a glance at her 
brother. 

“I would love to—if I thought Bert would care 
enough about it," Edith agreed. 

“It can’t make any difference to him,” Kelso 
grumbled. 

“Use his name and enjoy the family privileges,” 
said Doris. “There is so much going on here that you 
ought not to miss any of it." 

“But it is so exclusive—” Edith protested. 

“What of that? You can be just as patronizing as 
the best of them. Few here can rival you," Kelso as¬ 
sured her, glancing over his shoulder at his sisters as 
if he feared being overheard. 

“It all depends on who sponsors you,” Evelyn said. 
“But Kelso would take care of that, wouldn't your’’ 


64 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Leave it to me,” he said, and settled back in his 
chair. 

His heart gave a leap of exultation. He had dis¬ 
covered her weakness. She wanted to feel the sense 
of her own importance, her capability of being num¬ 
bered with the best in the town, and she was not artful 
enough to conceal it. To be admitted to the same cir¬ 
cles as the Barneses, who were being asked everywhere 
because of their fashionable adherences and because 
everybody knew that nothing really worth while could 
be held without their patronage, the Lovells, whose 
family was regarded with especial favor because of 
Arthur Lovell’s marriage with Amy Strachey, who was 
of Colonial ancestry, a peculiar mark of distinction 
common to all New Englanders, the Fishers, young 
Fred Harkness and his wife, who was Governor Pratt’s 
daughter—this was something evidently worth striving 
for in Edith Colman’s estimation. She did not have 
to be told that the whole catalogue of customs and con¬ 
ventions had, for generations back, been shaped and 
decided by these very few who had risen to power and 
prominence by the vagaries of fortune and influence. 
Rank determined everything to-day, even excellence. 
It is not what you are, but who your ancestors were, 
that scored. Suppose it were a pharisaical class for the 
most part that dominated the upper set, they had the 
advantage on their side of time-honored respect and 
reverence, so that their very names became synonymous 
with all that stood for culture and attainment. He 
now perceived how earnestly Edith yearned for admit¬ 
tance to this inner circle, and he had an idea that if he 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 65 

could let her see the work of his hand in enabling her 
to rise to these guarded heights he would hold an ad¬ 
vantage which she could not very well disavow. She 
was clever enough to take care of herself. 

There was her husband to be considered, of course— 
a narrow-minded chap in so far as social gayeties were 
concerned. Still there was no reason for him to find 
fault with her ambitions. No modern woman would 
think of being tied to the house like the mothers of the 
other generation. The world had made a great step 
forward with the emancipation of woman. There 
would be expenses, of course, and from the little he 
had learned from her own lips about her husband, he 
was sure to raise a fuss when the money question was 
brought to his attention. An odd fellow, thought 
Kelso, somewhat contemptuously, one who wanted his 
wife to have a good time, but who was unwilling to pay 
for it. 

This was one of the consequences of early marriage, 
with its narrow margin of operation and limitation of 
personal choice and freedom! Here was a girl who 
wanted to be free to do as she pleased, but who was 
denied by an onerous yoke the satisfaction of her de¬ 
sires. With the burden of matrimony thrown off he 
pictured her an altogether different creature. It made 
him shiver to think what might be in store for him 
should he come away from the altar mismated with a 
woman for life. What would he ever do when he 
learned, to his profound astonishment, that she was 
impossible? Spend his vacations at home! Or travel 
extensively in Europe! Edith Colman possessed all the 


66 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


earmarks of a capital sport, a regular girl, one who 
might easily adapt herself to the requirements of any 
occasion, were she not oppressed by the ponderous mill¬ 
stone hanging about her neck. It was the woman who 
paid the penalty for these things always. Though it 
was right and proper for her to have immunities and 
safeguards, the crude custom of society still branded 
her with suspicion and confined her circle of operations. 
It was ever the woman who bore watching. Why else 
did they make her wear that band of gold about her 
finger? She was not entitled to the privileges w r hich 
man enjoyed before the law, before the public mind, 
before God, because she did not share the competence, 
the nature, the vocation of man. 

Later, as they sat on the dark porch in the swing 
settee, he took the opportunity to allude to the monoto¬ 
nous existence she had elected to live. His sisters had 
stayed inside to attend to some matters concerning dues, 
a few extra charges which had to be settled before the 
first of the month, and they were left together to await 
them outside. 

“For a girl of your ability, you really don’t get out 
enough,” he said, turning towards her and throwing 
one arm negligently over the back of the settee. 

“But I don’t mind it—not in the least,” she tossed 
back, indifferently. 

“Others do,” he rejoined. “You have no right to 
deprive them of the pleasure of your company.” 

“No one bothers about me. Why should any one 
care? It may be different, perhaps, when I am a Con¬ 
gressman’s wife.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 67 

“But the friends you make to-day will stand you in 
good stead then. And these are the people you ought 
to meet.” 

“It’s our way, I suppose. You see neither of us 
think much about other people. We seldom enter¬ 
tain-” 

“Isn’t that the reason?” 

“The reason?” 

“Why you do not meet people? Things have 
moved forward at a fast pace since we were children. 
Woman’s place was once in the home. Now her in¬ 
terests have expanded considerably. To-day she makes 
her presence felt everywhere.” 

Edith received this in silence. “I suppose you are 
right,” she said at length. 

“You can’t drift indefinitely. The strain is aging 
you. What you need is life, and lots of it. You don’t 
mind my telling you this, I hope? It is because I am 
interested—very much interested.” 

He let his hand fall on hers. She did not draw 
away. 

“I discovered this the first tirpe I met you. You 
wanted to be different in spite of yourself. But you 
didn’t dare. You thought only of your home. It cir¬ 
cumscribed your ambitions. Elome is good, but it must 
not become a hermitage.” 

“I shall get out more,” she said. 

“You will come to see us—often?” 

“Yes, indeed!” 

“To-morrow?” 

“Perhaps! I should love to play golf again.” 




68 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Do you ride?” 

“Just a little. I learned to sit on a horse while in 
college. I suppose I have forgotten how since that 
time.” 

“We have our own horses and you can easily be ac¬ 
commodated. Suppose we make an afternoon of it— 
you and I?” 

“Oh, but Evelyn—Doris-” 

“I am not including Evelyn—or Doris!” 

She flushed, hesitated, looked away. 

“I knew you wouldn’t come. Everything you’ve 
done so far has been at the request of Evelyn.” 

“You never asked me before.” 

“I thought you might refuse me, as you did just 
now.” 

“I haven’t refused you—yet. And I won’t. I’ll 

do anything you ask.” 

“You mean it?” 

“Absolutely!” 

The two sisters appeared in the doorway. Kelso, 
glancing past her saw them, and lapsed into silence. 
Shortly afterwards all departed for home. 



VI 


T HE second week in July the Colmans were in the 
Berkshires. It w r as their custom to spend July 
and a part of August in their camp at Spring 
Lake. It was a beautiful spot. There was the usual 
fringe of hills, behind which the sun, large and fiery, 
was wont to rest, his saffron rays blazing a path of 
color across the garnet and silver waters. There were 
camps and clearings bounding the shores, where red 
and brown roofs shone by day and signal lights burned 
at night. There was never a moment of perfect rest, 
so careful was Dame Nature to attend to the minutest 
things of earth and sky with the same degree of effort 
and the same felicity of success. 

“Trailsend” was located on a point of land jutting 
out a few feet into the limpid water. Here was the 
Colman camp, of brown-shingled sides and roof, with 
cobblestone foundation, the whole resembling a bun¬ 
galow in West Shefford more than a summer camp in 
the woods. Bert had purchased it at Edith’s solicita¬ 
tion a little more than a year ago, and, although it was 
far removed from home and consequently reached with 
great difficulty, still the first few hours spent therein 
were quite sufficient to justify its isolation and incon¬ 
venience. Its aspect was inviting, a comfortable ve¬ 
randa running around two of its sides, a spacious green 

69 


70 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


lawn leading clear down to a concrete embankment close 
by the water’s edge, winding gravel walks leading away 
and anywhere, a dense thicket of Norway pine protect¬ 
ing the rear and making a fine background against 
which the white trimmings of the tiny house stood out 
with precision and elegance. 

They had been here less than a week when the place 
began to grow monotonous. Edith had had an unusu¬ 
ally busy and pleasure-filled spring and summer, and 
the lake became very dull by way of contrast. Golf 
and riding had been the order of the day for weeks 
and weeks, and nearly every Sunday she and Bert had 
gone touring with the Wheaton sisters to some nearby 
resort, where they stopped for dinner. This exciting 
living had fascinated her, and the landscape at 
Spring Lake no longer awakened the ecstatic emotions 
of yore. It was isolated. What else was there to do but 
read to pass away the time, or go canoeing? Unless it 
happened that a party assembled at McKim’s, where, to 
the accompaniment of an old piano and drum, dances 
were laboriously performed on the pineboard floor. 
Bert went fishing nearly every day and Bab lived in her 
bathing suit, but neither of these diversions interested 
Edith. She sat and read, and longed for the days to 
roll away, when she could get back home again to the 
charm and excitement of the little city. 

One evening, just before sunset, Bert coaxed her to 
go fishing, a sport she heretofore had refused to at¬ 
tempt. She entered into it as a means of breaking the 
monotony, but manifested impatience when she learned 
there was a science to it that had to be mastered. She 


i 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 71 

listened attentively to her husband for a few minutes, 
then taking the rod from his hands, began to throw 
the fly. 

“But I don’t think I really want a fish. I wouldn’t 
touch it even if I were lucky enough to land one.” 

“Wait until you catch one and see,” he said. 

They had a good time of it for an hour or more, 
away up the lake where the beach showed pebbles and 
rock in abundance. He explained to her that it was 
one of the favorite haunts of the bass, and he dropped 
anchor a short distance from the shore and told her to 
cast in the direction of the land. 

“Be sure you keep your thumb lightly on the reel 
while the fly is in the air,” he told her. “Then, when 
it lights on the water, clamp it on firm. If the bass sees 
it he will strike at once. That’s the time to hook him.” 

She nodded at the advice, and stood up in the boat 
like an expert. Her eyes danced with the fervor of an 
enthusiast, her trim form swayed gracefully from side 
to side. Several times she threw the fly, far over her 
head, inaccurately, awkwardly, letting it fall rather 
than alight on the water. 

“Let it rest on the surface. You will scare him. He 
must think it a live fly, and live flies do not fall into the 
water with a splash.” 

She made no reply, but reeled in again for another 
try. This time she threw the plug with less violence 
and the reel hummed merrily. No sooner had the fly 
struck the water than it was seized and carried below. 
The rod bent under the strain. 

“Hook him,” Bert shouted. “That’s it. . . , Give 


72 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


him plenty of time. . . . Now you have him. . . . 
Don’t try to pull him out of the water. . . . Play him 
and keep the line taut. ...” 

Her heart beat wildly as she felt the rod jerk in her 
hand from the movements of the fish. The more he 
pulled the more she let him have it, slowly, carefully, 
following Bert’s instructions. Suddenly the bass raced 
toward her and before she had time to reel it had 
broken water. 

“Tight!” Bert called. “Don’t give him any slack. 
,. . . Raise the rod. . . . !” 

But the bass had already broken and was standing, 
literally, on top of the water, jaws distended, his whole 
body shaking vigorously. The effort was successful 
and the next moment the hook had been disengaged 
and he fell back into the depths of the lake, the victor 
in the struggle. 

“Too bad!” was Bert’s sole comment. “Never 
mind.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” she cried. 

“I know it, but you see what happens when you give 
him an inch of line. The bass is a gamy fish, and it 
takes all your wits to land him. Try again!” 

She made no reply; she was annoyed at her failure. 
Slowly she reeled in the line and examined the fly 
wistfully. 

“Wasn’t he a beauty?” she said. 

“Yes. About three pounds, I should say.” 

“I’m going to try again.” 

“Go ahead, but he won’t bother you for awhile.” 

Long after the sun had gone down and well into the 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


73 


twilight she cast for a strike, but none came. The 
water was running smoothly, the wind having died 
down, and the moon was rising over the pines, a dull 
copper color. They conversed but little, as fisherfolk 
are wont to do, and centered their thoughts on the 
movements of the fly. Finally, she grew tired and 
decided to quit. For the first time in her life she had 
tasted the thrill of victory only to see it snatched from 
before her eyes. 

But she was none the less happy. The evening 
seemed to take her out of herself and her lonely 
thoughts. She fancied that the lake had taken on a 
new aspect of loveliness with the pale moon half way 
up the sky and its warm glow glittering in the ripples 
like a sea of diamonds. The boat cut through the shim¬ 
mering water like an intruder and she put out one of 
her hands to seize the sparkling wavelets. She was in 
a happy mood, and she chatted with her husband all the 
way home. 

“This is what Kelso Wheaton would like,” she said. 

“Why don’t you ask him up?” he replied, quickly, 
emphatically. 

“I have asked them. But they are away so much. 
They promised to steal a few days. Be good to them, 
won’t you? They have been good to me.” 

“Does Kelso like fishing?” 

“He likes any sport.” 

“Do you know,” he said, musingly, “I’ve never quite 
liked him-” 

She colored a little. “And why-?” 




74 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“I don’t know. Doesn’t he strike you as a bit of a 
sycophant?” 

“You are unkind. Why do you say that?” Her 
face betrayed her annoyance. 

“Say what? Sycophant?” 

“Yes. Is it nice to talk about people that way?” 

“There is no harm in it, surely—between ourselves. 
I only asked your opinion.” 

“In my opinion you are entirely too critical.” 

With her wonted impulsiveness she decided that this 
was but another way of his expressing his supreme con¬ 
tempt for Kelso Wheaton. But Bert often did that, 
she thought, by insinuation instead of assertion, and he 
could say the meanest things in the most caustic way. 
She was well aware that he did not care particularly 
for the Wheatons, but that was no reason why she 
should be obliged to suit her friendships to his tastes. 
These people had proved themselves loyal and benevo¬ 
lent friends, and for this reason she thought he might 
be decent enough to show them some consideration. 
He was odd, indeed. She paused and watched him 
for a moment, pulling at the oars, quickly, emphatically, 
always emphatic, always quick, just as a few minutes 
ago, when she said: 

“This is what Kelso Wheaton would like,” and his 
answer: 

“Why don’t you ask him up?” Quick and emphatic. 

Another pause; she looked away that he might not 
detect her studying him. Presently she turned upon 
him. 

“Perhaps you wonder why he interests me,” she said. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


75 


“If you want to know I’ll tell you. He is companion¬ 
able, he is interesting, a fellow who makes no pretense 
at all at being clever—yet he really is clever. I can’t 
discuss things with you as I do with him. He likes 
books, plays, knows college life and fun. Sometimes 
my brain loses its grip on things. Association with him 
keeps it sharpened. Sometimes I have to brush up 
again on things to be prepared for him. He reads all 
the books, and knows what the reviews have to say 
about everything.” 

“Poppycock!” 

“That’s where you and I differ. Certain things make 
no appeal to you; yet to me they mean a great deal. I 
have been accustomed to dealing with them all my life, 
and I have had to forego many pleasures on account of 
you. How much nicer it would be for both of us if we 
enjoyed the same sort of amusements. We should have 
so much more in common. As it is you are wrapped 
up in politics, for which I don’t care a snap of my fin¬ 
gers. I am fond of reading and discussion, and you 
don’t even know what a novel looks like.” 

“Well, I suppose if I had the time I could get in* 
terested in such things, too. I like reading well enough, 
but I like to read for a purpose.” 

“Do you suppose people read novels just because 
they have nothing else to do?” 

“Most of them.” 

“Then you are wrong. Some of the finest intellects 
the world has ever known have given us stories that 
help to influence and guide our lives-” 




76 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“And some of the worst trash ever written may be 
found among the pages of story books.” 

She lapsed into silence, the consciousness of defeat 
overwhelming her. To continue any argument was use¬ 
less; he would have his way. Whatever his limitations 
were, and she felt them to be many, not one of them 
interfered in the least with his argumentative powers. 
It was impossible for her to get along with him, for it 
meant complete surrender every time. How different 
with Kelso! He always let her feel the importance of 
her own point of view, and whenever their opinions dif¬ 
fered it was he who yielded to her. As she sat motion¬ 
less and silent in the stern of the boat, and gazed on 
the moonlight bathing the surface of the lake or light¬ 
ing up the topmost parts of the trees and the more 
prominent places on the lowlands on the nearby shore, 
she was conscious of a curious reversion of mood. She 
always felt happy with Kelso. There was something 
about his gentleness so distinguished by minute observ¬ 
ance and deference that the remembrance of it consoled 
her. It stole across her like a narcotic, to relieve the 
bitterness and distress of her existence. 

‘Tull on that oar,” she remarked now, diffidently. 
“You’re going into the cove.” 

“It’s hard to keep my eyes on you and watch where 
I am going at the same time,” he said. 

“You don’t have to keep your eyes on me,” she 
returned, soberly. 

“I would like to get a small motor for this boat,” 
he then observed. “We could run around the lake in 
no time.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


77 

“Why don't you save some of the money you spend 
foolishly and put it into a car?'’ 

“I spend no money foolishly-” 

“Oh, no!” 

“You are not referring to—your maid?” 

“I am not,” she flushed angrily. “I mean giving it 
to those dishonest politicians.” 

“I expect to get it back some day,” he reminded her. 

“Yes. Graft, I suppose.” 

“Never! You ought to know me better than that. 
They may run me for Congress this fall.” 

“How much will that cost you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean for the privilege of running. You don’t 
expect somebody else to pay your bills?” 

“No. There are contributions, of course. It might 
cost me a thousand dollars.” 

“A thousand dollars! And then you tell me you 
spend no money foolishly! And I am foolish enough 
to believe you. You can’t give me anything, but you 
can throw a thousand dollars away on politics. Sup¬ 
pose you are defeated!” 

“I get the advertising, don’t I? It will help my 
practice.” 

The boat neared the shore and he got out first to 
draw it up on the sand. She stepped out and left him 
without a word. Babs was waiting for them on the 
wall, but she passed her by and went into the house 
to prepare the supper. 

Next morning she was astir early and the dishes were 
finished quickly. The day was fresh, and a lively 



78 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

breeze came dancing down the lake. Bert was trying 
to hang a picture in the living-room and was making a 
fuss looking for picture wire and some hooks. She, 
panting to get out of his way, especially during these 
moments when he set about something which he had 
not the patience to do slowly, wandered out on the 
veranda and took up the review to resume her reading 
of yesterday. One of the very popular novels was run¬ 
ning serially, with New York society of the Seventies 
as the setting for the tale. It was uncanny, the art of 
this author. It w r as so very interesting and so pains¬ 
takingly done. But how extremely formal these folks 
were! And how tiresome it must have been to have 
to conform to the standards of those days! Here was 
the Countess Olenska, fleeing from her Parisian hus¬ 
band and meeting with a cold reception from New 
York society! They looked upon her as a dreadful 
person, even refusing to meet her at dinner. What a 
difference a score or more of years makes! It was 
plain to be seen that the metropolis w T as then living in 
its age of innocence. 

Presently Babs came running to her side, heedless of 
everything, and threw herself into her mother’s lap. 

“Babs! Don’t you see mother is reading?’’ 

Babs did see mother was reading, but not before her 
attention had been sharply called to it. She withdrew 
pouting, one fist buried in her eye. 

“What is it you want;"" Edith inquired. 

“Can—can I go out—in the—canoe?”' 

“No, dear. You cannot.” 

“Why-y-y?” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


79 


‘‘Because I do not want you to.” 

“Will you come with me?” 

“Not now.” 

Edith resumed her reading while the little one con¬ 
tinued to sulk. Presently Bert's voice sounded from 
the living-room. 

“Who’s pitching into Babs now?” 

No answer, only a deep silence. 

The mother interpreted the remark as a mild re¬ 
buke and her face colored slightly. Babs, observing 
the silence, hastened away and went indoors. 

“Daddy!” she called, “I want to go out in the canoe 
and mother won’t take me.” 

“Never mind, I’ll take you. We shall go for the 
mail. « How does that strike you?” 

“Oh, goody! Let’s!” she cried, gleefully, and they 
came out together. 

“What’s that you’re reading?” asked Bert. 

“Just a story,” she replied, tartly. 

“What’s it all about?” 

“Do be quiet, please,” she said. “How can I read 
when you ply me with questions? Besides, it’s only a 
story—a trashy story.” 

He whistled softly as if he understood. She was 
vexed again. The frown on her forehead showed it, 
that, and the nervous staccato of her foot. 

Leaving her he turned quickly and headed for the 
lake. Babs raced after him. No sooner had they 
crossed the wide lawn in front of the house than Edith 
looked up, saw them chatting cheerfully, and was seized 
with a strange caprice. With a rush she was oh the 


8o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


veranda and outsped them for the canoe. Grasping 
Babs by the hand she carried her along with her. 

“Come with me, Babs! I’ll take you.” 

Bert continued his leisurely pace to the shore and 
put the canoe into the water for them, helping them in 
and pushing them out into the lake. For several min¬ 
utes he stood there watching them glide away. Then 
he turned, scratched his head, and made for the house. 

The warm morning sun stood well up above them 
in the clear, steel vault of heaven, glowing and spar^ 
kling in the eddies driven forward by the wind, in the 
wavelets cut by the slender prow. The wind blew 
briskly and catching the canoe on the side, made pad¬ 
dling difficult. The curved shores of the lake revealed 
calm and lovely vistas, where birch trees stood up 
straight against the water and seemed twice their height 
in the glassy foreground. A shy kingfisher took alarm 
and flew from a branch close by with a shrill cry of 
anger. 

Babs talked incessantly. First it was about Edgar 
Stock’s new canoe with a motor in it that went “like 
everything” and “all you had to do was steer it”; then 
it was about Mrs. Doran’s dog “that jumped off the 
pier and went in swimming like anybody else, not after 
a stick or anything, but just jumping right off”; now 
about Agnes’ old boat (Agnes Smith was her play¬ 
mate), a “scow” she called it, that leaked “something 
awful” and had to be baled out all the time when she 
rowed across the lakes; the new log cabin of Clark’s,) 
built of pine logs cut near by; and the dance hall beside 
the store. The uninterested mother replied with a 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 81 


word or two to her persistent questioning, but made 
no attempt to keep abreast of the little chatterer’s 
thoughts. 

For she was too deeply absorbed in another matter. 
More than ever she had begun to realize that she and 
Bert did not understand each other, and she was begin¬ 
ning to resent his attitude of seeming to own her. She 
was sick to death, tired of his narrow spirit. It was 
just the little incidents—insignificant as they seemed— 
that showed how unable each was to appreciate the 
thoughts and feelings of the other. She was becoming 
increasingly impatient with him, and it was obvious that 
his offensive bearing would have to be changed. She 
could easily imagine the peculiar state of mind of the 
hero of the novel she had been reading. His wife was 
too genuine, too innocent, for stimulating interest. In 
the Countess Olenska were combined a number of at¬ 
tributes that lent zest to his more prosaic surroundings. 
She, like Newland Archer, was losing all interest in her 
unimaginative spouse. 

Only last night, as they went out fishing, she had 
thought this spot the loveliest place imaginable, with 
its fir-trees encircling the white marble surface of the 
lake, the evening air soft and fragrant with the nectar 
distilled by the needles of the pines. But this morning 
all was changed. It was too sequestered for human 
endurance, too solitary. She saw it now as clearly as 
she saw the light of the sun in the water before her. 
But it was not the place that was at fault; it was her 
husband. If their lives were doomed to failure because 
of an incompatibility that appeared to be growing wider 


82 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


and more vehement every day, something should be 
done to make him realize it before the breach grew 
irreparable. She was satisfied, however, that deliver¬ 
ance would have to come from his side. 

The store lay directly ahead of her, and she coaxed 
the canoe to the side of the float. This was the ren¬ 
dezvous of the lake people. There was the usual as¬ 
sortment of canned goods, candies, ices and tobacco for 
the comfort and delight of the campers; there was the 
post office where the mail was brought from town in the 
old Ford car; there was the dance hall where the young 
folks congregated and enjoyed themselves twice every 
week. It was the community center and provision mart 
combined, and, with its old proprietor, Roger McKim, 
authorized constable, justice-of-the-peace, and game 
warden of the township, was the outstanding place of 
activity of the neighborhood. 

Babs climbed up the float, scampered up the ramp, 
and disappeared within the store. When she reap¬ 
peared she had a letter in her hand. It was addressed 
to her mother and bore the post-mark, “West Shef- 
ford.” Edith recognized the writing immediately. 

“Who’s it from, mother?” Babs inquired as she 
handed it to her. 

“Miss Wheaton, dear.” 

“What does she say?” 

No answer. 

“Miss Evelyn or Miss Doris?” 

“Miss Evelyn.” 

“Is she coming up?” 

“Yes. Next week.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 83 

“What day?” 

. “Sunday.” 

Satisfied, the child crept carefully back into the tiny 
craft and Edith paddled home as rapidly as possible. 
She wanted to tell Bert that the Wheatons were com¬ 
ing. They had decided to take a short motor trip and 
stop over for a few days, and they intended to bring 
Kelso for a purpose which would be explained later. 

She met Bert on the veranda and smiled happily. 
It caused him to wonder what good news had come to 
her. 

“Here is a letter from Evelyn,” she said. “They 
are coming up.” 

“Fine! When?” 

“Sunday!” she replied with eyes aglow. 

“Good!” he exclaimed again. “Write back at once 
and tell them they will be welcome. I guess we can 
find room for everybody. Put the car in the barn. 
Sure!” 

She went to the table at once and began to write the 
reply, giving directions concerning the best route to 
take. The atmosphere had cleared wonderfully, and 
the camp was not so solitary, after all. 


VII 


S UNDAY was dark and showery, the rain stream¬ 
ing continuously from a dull gray sky. Thunder 
was heard at times in the distance, long, rolling 
growls like the terrifying roar of angry animals in the 
jungle. The downpour was terrific while it lasted and 
marched up the lake with a hissing noise, defining the 
area of its progress as it moved along. Huge clouds 
whirled by from the south, making ugly grimaces as 
they passed, dripping with moisture which the wind 
caught and drove mercilessly against the trees and the 
house. It was such a day as Nature loves to use, to 
display her might and power before a cowering world. 
But Edith did not cower. She rather enjoyed the 
spectacle, and marveled at the awful splendor and 
wealth of Nature’s energy. She stood on the veranda, 
in the shelter of the house, and watched the alternation 
of showers as they came from the lower portion of the 
lake and disappeared behind the upper hills. 

Suddenly, above the noise of the storm, she heard 
an automobile horn. She had been expecting it, and, 
turning quickly, she peered down the path that led 
through the woods out to the main road, and saw the 
familiar enclosed car feeling its way nervously and cau¬ 
tiously down the trail. Wrapping her cloak about her 
she descended to the front lawn to signal a message of 

84 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 85 

welcome. They saw it, and the dripping and spattered 
sedan jumped forward joyfully, climbed over the grass 
and sand as far as the front steps, snorted loudly and 
stopped. Edith hastened to the door to extend the 
hospitality of the camp to the weary tourists, but they 
assured her that they were not in the least uncomfort¬ 
able, and had enjoyed the trip in spite of the driving 
rain and heavy roads. 

She was aglow with feverish enthusiasm. Calling 
Bert, who had just appeared on the veranda, to assist 
with their wraps and bags she waited for the two young 
women to alight, and then took them upstairs to their 
room. Everything was clean and neat, there w T as a 
fresh supply of water in the pitchers, freshly laundered 
towels and bed linen, brand new scarf on the dresser. 
Kelso’s room was in front, a large airy room, which 
she and Bert had surrendered to him. Here were trays 
for his cigarettes, matches, a rocker brought upstairs 
for his use, and several Remington prints of which she 
knew he was fond. 

“Hasn’t it been dreadful?” Evelyn remarked as they 
went upstairs. “We came through shower after 
shower.” 

“It rained here all day,” Edith replied. 

“We were caught at the Wayside Inn. It’s the 
queerest place!” 

“Don’t you like it? We are very fond of it.” 

She relieved them of their hats and laid them on a 
shelf. 

“We have no room here for closets,” she apologized. 
“All space available has been made into rooms.” 


86 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Why, you have the cutest place imaginable!” Doris 
vowed enthusiastically. 

“Yes, it is pretty,” Edith agreed. “And it is so 
delightful in the evening when the moon is out over 
the water. You could sit for hours watching it.” 

“And the lake! Isn't it fine!” said Evelyn from the 
window whither she had gone to look outside. 

u Oh, you cannot see it to-day,” Edith reminded her. 
“Wait until to-morrow. The storm will be over then. 
Really, it is quite charming.” 

They came downstairs to find Bert and Kelso exam¬ 
ining some fishing rods and flies. Some words about 
bass and pickerel escaped their lips. These men! For¬ 
ever talking about sport! 

“I was just complimenting your husband on his 
camp,” Kelso said. “Why, he has everything here. I 
never dreamed of finding such a place.” 

“Do you like it?” Edith asked. 

“Immensely! I should like to stay here all the 
time.” 

“You would soon get tired of it.” 

They fell to examining the gayly colored flies and 
silvery spoons, Bert explaining to the girls the purposes 
and values of each. A trolling spoon greatly interested 
Evelyn and she spun it round several times with her 
finger. 

“Look! Do you wonder the fish is fascinated?” 

Supper was served in true camp style, everybody 
waiting upon himself and passing the dishes from one 
to the other with obliging courtesy. An oil lamp, sus¬ 
pended from one of the beams in the ceiling, cast a yel- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 87 

low glow over the table, and added to the simplicity of 
it all. There was certainly enough to eat, judging from 
the crowded appearance of the table, with its wholesome 
food. Never before had their board accommodated so 
many, and Bert, at its head, sat and marveled at the 
tireless industry of his wife and the real pleasure she 
was deriving from the deliciously satisfying meal. 

“How do you ever do this—all by yourself?” Doris 
asked Edith. “My, but you are a wonder!” 

“Oh! I am ashamed of myself and the dirt of the 
place. Please, don’t notice it—and the floor! I meant 
to scrub it yesterday, but it would never dry.” 

“Scrub it? You? Mercy!” 

“Really. I washed all the woodwork last week. 
Soon I am going to stain the floors. It’s loads of fun.” 

“And what do you do for real excitement, when you 
want to go off and create a scandal, or do something 
desperate?” pursued the incorrigible Doris. 

“She goes to the movies,” Bert supplied. “And we 
attend the dances.” 

“Dances!” exclaimed Kelso. 

“Yes. There’s an old fellow here, a peculiar old 
chap with quite a history attached to his life. Got in 
here some way or other and settled down. All those 
camps the other side of the lake are his. He rents 
them. The dance hall was built by him alongside of 
his own camp, and it’s the weirdest place you ever saw. 
Rough pine trunks holding up the roof and there’s a 
tree growing through one side of it. A couple of boys 
come in from town, over here at Shapley about eight 



88 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


miles away, and one of them plays the piano, and the 
other a drum. It’s good, I want to tell you.” 

“It must be. How often do they hold these affairs?” 

“Three times a week, isn’t it, Edith?” 

“Yes. There’s a dance to-morrow night, by the way. 
Would you like to go?” 

“It would be fun,” said Evelyn. “Do you go often?” 

“Once in a while. Bert doesn’t dance, you know. 
But we stand at the windows and w T atch the others.” 

Early the next morning before the sun had risen, 
Bert brought Kelso up the lake for a try at bass. The 
storm of yesterday had cleared entirely and there was 
scarcely a cloud in the sky, but everything w r as damp 
and sticky and the air cool and moist. What luck they 
would have was conjectural, Bert reminded his anxious 
guest, for the heavy rains of the two preceding days 
had washed a quantity of food, flies and bugs and 
worms, down the slopes into the lake and the bass were 
liable to be pretty well fed. Still it was worth the 
attempt. So they were gone for hours before the rest 
of the party thought of rising for the day. 

Evelyn and Doris rose about eight and got their own 
breakfasts—usually a simple ceremony in a camp. 
Recreation followed as soon as the few dishes were 
put away and this morning it was indulged in on the 
veranda, where there was much gossip to be exchanged. 
Sadie Jackson had announced her engagement to Chet 
Baldwin and the papers printed a terrible picture of 
her. She never took a good picture, anyway. It was 
whispered that all was not going well with the Pooles. 
Mrs. Poole and Gladys had left for Europe without 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 89 

Will and it was rumored that a certain Mrs. Leffington 
was mixed up in the case. It was said that they had 
agreed to separate, but she wouldn’t give him the sat¬ 
isfaction of getting a divorce. 

Edith inquired about Mrs. Liggett. This gave 
Evelyn the chance she was waiting for, to tell Edith 
what a dangerous woman they had been inviting to 
their house, who was affording them as much concern 
as they had ever suffered. 

“She is after Kelso, and I know it,” Evelyn declared 
with emphatic determination. “Every pretext in the 
world she has seized to visit us and we have never re¬ 
turned a call. She wrote us that she was driving 
through this week, but I wired back that we were leav¬ 
ing for a trip. That w r as the reason I brought Kelso 
with us.” 

The words gave Edith a shock, for she never imag¬ 
ined for a moment that such a state of affairs could be 
possible. The only time she had met Betty was at 
Westlawn the night of the play. It had never dawned 
on her that she was entertaining any secret designs on 
Kelso Wheaton. She resented the idea bitterly, for 
some reason or other of which she did not seem con¬ 
scious. 

“What does she want with Kelso?” she asked in 
scorn. “Isn’t she living with her husband? I thought 
she was happy.” 

“Oh, that marriage won’t last long,” Doris declared. 
“She will shake him off one of these days. Too diabetic 
for her! He needs a nurse, a real nurse, not a flirt.” 

“But I thought she was his nurse-” 



9 o 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“She says she was; but no one knows the truth. She 
told Kelso once she was his private secretary, but Mr. 
Liggett claims he met her in a hospital. Another re¬ 
port has it that he first met her at Newport during the 
tennis tournament and was attracted by her wonderful 
form.” 

The last w r ords were accompanied by a long drawl. 

“Does Mr. Liggett suspect this?” 

“He’s too simple to suspect anything. .They say 
there’s no fool like an old fool, but the fool who mis¬ 
leads the fool is a reprobate. I could never understand 
why a beautiful young woman would w~ant to tie her¬ 
self up to a fossil, yet it happens every day, and it oc¬ 
curs only among our best families.” 

“Was a time when New York would have gasped 
in astonishment over such affairs,” said Edith. “But 
no one seems to mind it now—very much. We are 
rather surprised at a marriage that turns out perfectly 
happy-” 

“And print our pictures in the papers to tell the 
world that we’ve been living together twenty-five or 
fifty years,” Doris chimed. 

“Well,” Evelyn observed, “convention is wonderful. 
The Beloved Vagabond says it is essential for the 
smooth conduct of social affairs, but it seems an elastic 
term, nevertheless. For instance, convention to-day has 
elevated divorce-” 

“And created alimony. Bianca Black got her di¬ 
vorce in twenty minutes, ‘by default.’ Her husband 
forgot all about the summons. Not so bad!” 

“The married woman who philanders with another 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


9i 

man and steals his affections is a thief of some other 
woman’s happiness,” Evelyn returned, emphatically. 

Edith saw envy and jealousy beneath all this. There 
was no doubt that the two sisters were very much in 
love with their handsome brother. For him they lived. 
She could see the turn of their hands in every factor 
that had been brought to bear upon the regulation of 
his career. He was sent to college to give him the ad¬ 
vantage. of a liberal education, although he was not 
expected to make any material use of the training he 
received. He was sent to Europe to develop his 
aestheticism, and to give his manners that polish that 
European experience affords. He was initiated into the 
Governor’s Foot Guards, an honorary organization 
composed of the representative men of the city to act 
as escort to the Chief Executive of the State whenever 
he appeared in public ceremony—and she knew that 
Kelso detested this on account of the fact that he was 
obliged to march on parade. They entertained at 
bridge for his sake, made him run the gamut of social 
life, encouraged him to feats of endeavor, such as tak¬ 
ing part in aviation meets and golf tournaments—but 
they had never succeeded in marrying him to some suit¬ 
able and respectable girl. Why? Were they simply 
selfish creatures who wanted him entirely and exclu¬ 
sively for themselves? 

Presently her eyes fell upon Bert and Kelso turning 
the bend where the land shot out peninsula-like into the 
water. They were heading for home. 

“Here they come!” Doris announced, “and they look 
like a pair of hungry fishermen.” 


92 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


As they stepped ashore it became apparent to the 
watchers on the veranda that Kelso’s hand was swathed 
in a handkerchief. Further investigation revealed that 
he had met with a painful accident. A hook had pene¬ 
trated the fleshy part of his thumb and torn a deep 
gash. He asked for a little iodine. 

Edith jumped to her feet and ran to meet him. She 
led him inside and examined the wound. It was more 
ugly than serious and she prepared to dress it. How 
like a big boy he looked, shirt open at the neck, arms 
bare and sunburned, hair matted, a smile on his face. 
As she applied the tincture of iodine he flinched and 
unconsciously she seemed to feel a similar sensation of 
pain. But there was harmony even here, and she 
beamed while she dressed the wound for him, like one 
unaccustomed to the happiness which the joy of doing 
something for some one else affords. 

She saw that he wanted to speak to her, but her in¬ 
stinct forbade it. She kept talking, and as she clipped 
the strings from the bandage, she dismissed him with 
a parting pat on the back. This was an indication of 
her indifference and he interpreted it accordingly, for, 
after thanking her in his gracious manner, he wandered 
out of the kitchen and joined the others on the veranda. 
She watched him depart and tarried behind long enough 
to permit them to lapse into naturalness before she her¬ 
self went out and took her chair. 

That night they went across the lake to McKim’s. 
Here was the pavilion, a rude structure fashioned from 
freshly cut pine timbers, fragrant and coarse-looking. 
Oil lamps suffused a faint yellow glow throughout the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


93 


place, and hid from view the rough pine knots and 
uneven matchings of the floor. Pine needles, scattered 
about the hall, made a slippery surface. From lakeside 
camps and the nearby town came young folks and old 
ones, too, in canoes, motor boats and Fords. There 
were, indeed, two distinct classes here, and the one re¬ 
mained in complete ignorance of the other insofar as 
knowledge or acquaintanceship went. Only those who 
were entitled to the privilege of friendship were per¬ 
mitted to become partners for the evening. Total 
strangers were they to everybody else and usually re¬ 
mained so the entire season. 

It was to satisfy the curiosity of her guests more than 
anything else that led Edith to propose a trip across 
the lake on the evening in question. Never for a mo¬ 
ment did it enter her mind that the Wheatons should 
mingle, even on the dance floor, with the crowd. Here 
in the dense woods there was that same consciousness 
of class privilege, as pronounced and as permanent as 
any definite discriminations of aristocratic Shefford or 
cosmopolitan New York. Intercourse was precluded 
by a feeling of mutual contempt. One of these shop 
girls, who had come over in the jitneys from the mills 
at Shapley, would as soon snub the idle debutante sum¬ 
mering in her cozy camp by the side of the lake as she 
would look at her. In point of fact she would prefer 
to snub her rather than look at her. It would afford 
her a great deal more satisfaction. 

Edith was radiant as she approached the hall. Of 
course people would wonder who her guests were, and 
she could perceive, as she climbed the few steps, the 


94 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


glances directed at them by the crowd assembled on the 
veranda that ran around two of the sides of the pa¬ 
vilion. Even here in the lake country the Wheatons 
bore themselves with that air of elegance and distinc¬ 
tion so characteristic of them at all times, and they be¬ 
came outstanding figures among that plainly attired 
company. Edith presented them to as many of her 
friends and neighbors on the lake as she encountered. 
Then Kelso asked her if she cared to dance. She read¬ 
ily assented. Here the eyes of the dancers were upon 
them. He wore the conventional suit of light tweed 
knickers and it became the object of all interest. 
No one had ever appeared in that pavilion in such at¬ 
tire before. Certain young men disdain to wear knick¬ 
ers, and they usually entertain ideas of their own con¬ 
cerning those who do. These looked over their shoul¬ 
ders at Kelso as he passed, sneered at him and passed re¬ 
marks about him to their partners. But Edith enjoyed 
the spectacle. She was glad of the opportunity of 
showing some of these people what conventional usage 
amounted to, as well as the kind of company she was 
accustomed to keep when she was at home. 

“I did not think you would come,” she said to him. 
“Was it much of an effort to tear yourself away?” 

“You asked us, didn’t you?” he responded. 

“Yes. But I didn’t dream you would care for it.” 

“It is a pleasure—to me at any rate. Really, I am 
charmed with the place. I had no idea you were so 
happy.” 

Happy! The word smote her, but she let it pass. 
She was not sure of his meaning. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


95 

“How is Betty?” she asked, changing the subject 
abruptly. 

He laughed. “Well, I think. Why?” 

“Why. ... I just wanted to know.” 

“Evelyn has been talking to you. Let me assure 
you, however, that Betty means nothing to me.” 

“Of course not! Why should she?” she replied with 
artless malice. He saw it instantly. 

“It is because she gets lonesome and comes to visit 
us to drive away the blues. You don’t know what it 
means—to feel lonely.” 

She looked amused. He watched her. Did he 
know what thoughts were surging through her brain he 
might have evinced surprise, she thought. 

“You have merely tried to cheer her up then?” she 
asked. 

“Yes, at times.” 

A stranger brushed close to him, pressing roughly 
against him. Kelso looked over his shoulder to offer 
an apology, but discovered a sardonic grin on the fel¬ 
low’s face. He stepped out of the way to avoid him. 

“Do you know that chap?” he asked her. 

“No,” she replied. “He does not belong here.” 

The incident was forgotten. But Kelso could not 
help feeling that the fellow’s actions were deliberate 
and malicious. On the other hand the hall was quite 
crowded, and it was just possible that he himself was 
partly to blame for the jostling. He had not been look¬ 
ing where he was going, so interested was he in their 
conversation. 

“Do you know,” she said now, very gravely, “I have 


96 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

often wondered why you do not marry and settle 
down!" 

“I suppose it's because I can't have what I want/' 
he replied. 

“Betty? The word escaped her before she knew it. 
Like a temptation the name had suggested itself and 
before she was aware of it her lips had given it utter¬ 
ance, 

“Berry! Ridiculous! But you would not under¬ 
stand-" 

Again they were jostled roughly. Kelso clearly saw 
the couple racing toward him, and halted to let them 
pass. They crashed into Edith and unbalanced her. 
There was no question now about the malice of the 
attack. 

“Don't do that again, please!" he said quietly to the 
aggressive pair. 

“Go on, you big stiff!'' came the savage retort. 
“Back to the woods!" 

Kelso's fist shot out and landed squarely on the ruf¬ 
fian's jaw. Several blows were exchanged before they 
were separated and conducted from the hall. No one 
seemed to mind: it was as if the affair were an ordinary 
occurrence, but Edith felt deeply humiliated as she 
joined the others outside. 

“I am sorry I forgot myself," apologized Kelso. “I 
thought you were hurt." 

“1 am sorry, too." she murmured. “But you were 
provoked to it-" 

“That's it." he said. “I lost my head, I guess. 
That's the trouble with me—I'm too impulsive, too 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


97 

hot-headed. And when he struck you I lost my self- 
control. v 

The story of the fracas had to be repeated to his 
sisters and Bert, Kelso emphasizing the fact that he had 
acted only in Edith's behalf. It was evident, however, 
that the crowd favored the bully, and they docked about 
him as they would about a hero. The situation was 
growing tenser, and it would not take much provocation 
to create a strong disturbance. Bert grasped the situ¬ 
ation, and whispered that it would be discreet to escape. 
Obedient to this suggestion they picked their way cau¬ 
tiously through the crowd and down the planks to the 
float, where they boarded their boat. In a few minutes 
they had pushed out into the lake. 

That was the evening Edith realized that there was 
something new and peculiar in her feeling for Kelso. 
She was unwilling to analyze it. but it had vanquished 
her completely. She felt it keenly, meeting it with fear 
lirst—then with enthusiasm. 


VIII 


ABOUT a week later Bert awoke and found Edith 
dressed and ready for the day. 

“What’s the hour?” he asked. 

“Seven o’clock. Time you were up.” 

“Why are you up so early?” he asked, knowing it 
was her custom never to arise before eight. 

“We’re going to town.” 

He looked at her, noting the freshness of her color 
as she stood before the glass. She was lovely, in yellow 
and brown with short skirted frock of tan, dotted with 
little white knots, silk stockings to match and tan and 
white oxfords. Then he remembered that she was go¬ 
ing to the store with Kelso in the big sedan to buy some 
provisions. 

“Did you hear me last night?” he asked. 

“No! What was the trouble?” 

“It was a wild night. I must have been shouting my 
lungs out.” 

“1 heard nothing.” 

“I thought you were drowning, and I was trying my 
best to save you. I was frightened to death.” 

She adjusted a hairpin. 

“Would that frighten you?” 

“I don’t know where we were—in some sort of car, 
I guess, climbing a trestle. It was uphill, and a hard 

98 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


99 


climb, but all of a sudden we began to move. I could 
see a pair of towers far ahead and this gave me the 
idea that we were on the cables of a suspension bridge. 
I wondered how in the world we were going to get 
down on the other side. Before I realized it we had 
made the turn and begun the drop. It was awful. The 
wind took my breath away and I caught hold of you. 
The river was below us, black and flecked with foam. 
The turbid waters were rushing through the rapids. 
All of a sudden we fell into them. The next thing . . . 
Oh, yes, I was on a piece of rock and you were being 
tossed about in the current. I tried to reach you, but 
you did not come near me, and you were dragged away. 
There were falls, I remember their roar. I was calling 
after you when I awoke. It was terrible. What did 
we eat?” 

“Lobster salad. You had a nightmare,” she said, 
prosaically. 

“Well, a death like that must be terrible,” he yawned, 
clenching his fists and stretching his arms above his 
head. “What time did you say it was?” 

“Late. You had better dress,” she replied, and turn¬ 
ing, left the room. 

When she came downstairs and threw open the doors 
and windows it seemed as if the fresh morning air 
rushed in with pure delight, so welcome was its em¬ 
brace. It bathed the living-room with a flood of fra¬ 
grance. It filled her whole being and made her glad 
and blithesome. The day was indeed brilliant, without 
so much as a stray cloud to ruffle the bosom of the 
peaceful sky. A gentle breeze murmured through the 


100 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


trees with a great many whisperings, and drove the tini¬ 
est of wavelets scurrying across the lake like a multi¬ 
tude of phosphorescent fishes leaping out of the sea. 
She stood on the porch to gaze at the charming scenery 
and thought of Shelley: 

“My soul is an enchanted boat, 

Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing: 

• ••*•••• 

Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.” 

But it was not the splendor of the scene, lovely and 
captivating, that alone occupied her thoughts and, 
touching the deepest powers of her soul, elicited from 
them tuneful harmonies. The landscape was delicious 
to the eye and awakened pleasurable sensations, but it 
was her heart, particularly, that had been stimulated 
with an absorbing interest in its surroundings, the like 
of which had never engaged it before. She had been, 
literally, swept off her feet by this guest who had come 
into her house and effected a change in her very exist¬ 
ence. It was not love now, it was more than love. It 
was like the taste of a new life, the life of the ardently 
wooed heroines of fiction, with their alternate moments 
of insecure certainty and complete ecstasy, and she visu¬ 
alized herself as the counterpart of one of these fanci¬ 
ful creatures, and lived, for the time being, in a world 
of romance. Never before had she experienced quite 
the same sensations. Never before had she imagined 
that life could be so interesting and afford so much en¬ 
joyment from sheer frivolity. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT ioi 


Kelso had been allowed to make love to her, not that 
she feared its seriousness, but as a matter of amuse¬ 
ment. The whole affair was couched in terms of the 
wildest fancy. It was interesting; neither of them ever 
expected anything to result from it but the memories 
of a harmless escapade. They were like two love¬ 
birds, perched on a tiny bough at a dizzy height, whom 
accident had brought together and whom accident 
would soon separate. It was delightful, this fairyland, 
where no one grew weary, and where everybody played 
all day long to the sportive melodies of an elfin Puck. 

Only one short week! And yet how crowded with 
enchanting days! He had come, and had changed the 
aspect of everything and made it unlike anything that 
had ever been there before. That dead pine, the soli¬ 
tary tenant of Gavin Island, which had heretofore re¬ 
minded her of a gaunt ghost with weird, outstretched 
arms, was now a living thing, clothed with beauty and 
symmetry, standing as a sentinel to challenge the in¬ 
trepid mariner who dared to venture near. The old 
plank bridge at the head of the lake, whose heavy tim¬ 
bers were green with a half century’s growth of water 
moss, was a tottering old affair extremely perilous to 
the traveler; but last night it had seemed as if a phan¬ 
tom host of redskins were swarming over it, pressing 
on in mad pursuit of a panic-stricken foe. Each bush 
and rock, however unsightly in reality, assumed ideal 
beauty. The lake itself was no longer a body of water, 
but a crystal fluid dropped in among the hills, kissing 
the tall, green grass and overhanging boughs with pre¬ 
cious lips. Strange how the buoyancy of the soul can 


io2 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


communicate its radiance to the material world! Here 
she was, a girl again, who, during these moments of 
exuberance, had cast off the deepening shadows of the 
years that weighed upon her. Everything delighted 
her. 

Last night Kelso had commented upon her excep¬ 
tional brilliance and charm. They had gone for a ride 
in the canoe just after supper, at that hour between 
day and evening when the landscape was bathed in twi¬ 
light’s faintest hues; they did not turn back until they 
had gone under the old wooden bridge to Square Pond. 
Darkness chased the soft tints from the groves and 
hill-tops, and folded the countryside into its restful 
arms before their return, but they were quite unmind¬ 
ful of it, so wrapped up were they in their own selves. 
Wonderful things her ears had listened to, stories of 
himself, stories of his abiding interest in her. He made 
her feel that she was the only person in the world who 
mattered. Her ears believed him. When he spoke 
of the ardor of his affection, of his continued devotion, 
she did not wonder for a minute whether or no he were 
insincere. It did not occur to her, even, that she might 
be but another butterfly whose gaudy wings and deli¬ 
cate texture had fascinated his eye and stimulated his 
fancy for the pleasures of the hour. 

What would Bert say if he knew this was going on? 
Surely he must have suspected her feeling for Kelso 
from the start, unless he were blind indeed! But that 
was the way with Bert: he was so sure of her. It would 
never enter his brain that he might suffer the loss of 
her to some more ardent admirer. Never, unless some 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 103 

sudden casualty, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear 
sky, occurred to bring the realization of it home to his 
mind. And there was that gloomy tale spun through 
his brain last night by some old meddlesome fairy god¬ 
mother perched beside him on his pillow! Was she 
not trying to put him on his guard against his wife? 
Suppose, on the other hand, the dream were symbolical 
of the truth! Would he make that supreme effort to 
save her? 

She thought no more about it, for it dawned upon 
her quite suddenly that she was waiting for Kelso, and 
he had not appeared. Last night they had agreed to 
meet early this morning to go shopping in his car. 
There were many things she needed. They would 
want the car to bring home the bundles. 

“Oh, I say, Mrs. Colman,” his voice broke in upon 
her thoughts, “I am sorry to keep you waiting. My, 
how perfectly delightful you look this morning!” 

She thought she could make the same remark of him, 
in his loose fitting blue serge coat, white flannels and 
shoes. 

“That’s kind,” she replied, pleasantly. “I did not 
mind waiting. I was admiring the view.” 

“Isn’t it a wonderful day? Look at those clouds over 
the lake. The only ones in sight. What’s that Shelley 
says of the clouds? 

“ ‘I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky.’ ” 

“Now isn’t that singular!” she exclaimed. “Do youi 
know I was thinking of him when I came out.” 


104 the winter of discontent 

Their eyes met and they both laughed. 

“That was strange, what! Sort of coincidence! . . . 
Sorry I kept you waiting, though. This air, I guess, 
has a soporiferous effect on me. Ye-uh! Soporifer- 
ous! It means the same thing. I guess I am only half 
awake now.” 

“So it seems,” she said, and they left the porch. 

He backed the car from the garage and swung it 
around to the veranda steps to enable her to get in. 
Slowly he picked his way along the furrows of the trail, 
scaring up several partridges from their early feeding 
and driving them deeper into the woods for fear of 
the mighty roar. They went through a mile of this, 
through the pine forest, and at length reached the 
broad highway where they settled back for a long run. 

They talked in the usual way, as most people do, of 
the beautiful morning, of the mist clinging to the tops 
of the pines and hemlocks, of the good road moist with 
the dew. Edith presently volunteered the information 
that to-morrow was Sunday and that at this same hour 
they would be journeying along this same road on their 
way to church. This occasioned a number of inquiries 
on his part respecting the hour, the place, and the dura¬ 
tion of these services, adding that he would consider it 
a pleasure to escort them and as many of her friends as 
the car would hold to early Mass. She thanked him. 

“Don’t you ever go to church, even on Sunday?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, yes. Sometimes!” 

“It will be a novel experience for you, then, this ris¬ 
ing early on Sunday morning,” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 105 

“I daresay it will,” he laughed. 

“Don’t you believe in church?” 

“Yes _ of course. It is good. Religion is good 

for man. It gives him some consolation. 1 ’ 

“But you would not want to bind yourself to the 
obligations of any religious creed?” 

He smiled without answering and let her draw her 
own inference. This she did. 

“You would not want to make the sacrifice. Have 
you ever wished to be other than you are?” she asked. 

“In what way?” 

“Well, deprived of your sense of security. Could 
you live and not be a fatalist? You are one, are you 
not?” 

“I suppose so,” he answered. 

“Suppose it happens that you are heading for a 
goal you least expect!” 

“Maybe I am. Who can tell? But I am ready for 
whatever the future holds in store for me. Nothing 
ever happens without being preordained.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“That’s it. I don’t know. Therefore I accept what¬ 
ever is to be.” 

She did not like this necessarian doctrine, but the 
fact that he embraced it made it look somewhat differ¬ 
ent. Heretofore she had been accustomed to frown 
upon it because it was a philosophical heresy of John 
Stuart Mill. Now she thought she saw something in 
it, precisely because Kelso Wheaton believed in it. 

“What about the future? Are you yourself not di¬ 
rectly responsible for it? Your own will, I mean.” 


io6 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Not much,” came the reply. “I have always be¬ 
lieved in living for the day. To-morrow never comes. 
Epicurus spoke a good truth. What have we to do 
with the future other than to await its coming?” 

“But God knows what is in store for us-” 

“How do we know? How can we be sure? Of 
course I believe in God. Most people do, nowadays. 
But that does not help me to know what He thinks or 
does.” 

“It has been revealed,” she quickly reminded him. 

“Yes, so they say. But again—how can we be sure? 
They tell us now that Moses never wrote the Bible. 
Whom are we to believe? What if we were living in 
the midst of a huge sophistry! We accuse the pagans 
of having their gods and goddesses—yet they were en¬ 
tirely sincere.” 

She pursed her lips, unwilling to agree with him, un¬ 
willing to contradict him. He seemed to have very 
definite ideas along these lines . . . yes, he was a free¬ 
thinker . . . 

“The tendency to-day,” he went on, “is to get away 
from all these so-called dogmas. Men want more free¬ 
dom of thought. They must have it. The great 
trouble with religion is that it has not kept pace with 
man. We are living in an advanced stage of civiliza¬ 
tion. Science and machinery have made gigantic strides 
and have contributed much to progress. Religion has 
not moved forward one inch. Take our moral code. 
It has outlived its usefulness, for it has failed to meas¬ 
ure up to the advance made by society.” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 107 

“But it isn’t our moral code that is at fault. Society 
is at fault.” 

“Social life is precisely what we make it. Codes of 
law are beneficial as long as they reside in the heart 
of the individual. Any law that oppresses is unjust of 
its nature.” 

She felt like crying out against this, but for some rea¬ 
son or other was unable to. A law to her was an ob¬ 
jective reality, while conscience was the subjective norm. 
These two notions he had confused. Every law that 
regulated the welfare of a community restricted the lib¬ 
erty of the individual. Was a penal law to be con¬ 
sidered unjust simply because it restrained the freedom 
of action of certain persons? There were times when 
authoritative interference was necessary. All this she 
revolved in her mind, but she was powerless to give ex¬ 
pression to it in the presence of this man. Even his 
way of thinking completely dominated her, until at 
length she began to discover herself going against her 
better judgment and coinciding with his expressed 
belief. 

“Take yourself, for instance,” he exclaimed, putting 
an end to her cogitation. “You are unhappy with your 
husband! You know it as well as I. You are com¬ 
pelled to live with one who is incompatible in every 
way, bound to continue an unholy and unhappy alliance 
simply because a law of your Church compels you to. 
Better judgment tells you not to obey that law. It is 
unjust.” 

“But I must not think of doing otherwise.” 

“And why? Simply because you fear the conse- 


108 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

*• 

quences of divorce. Still you will admit that you and 
your husband are not properly mated.” 

“I suppose so,” she faltered. 

“You know it. Well, then, why don’t you leave 
him?” 

“I couldn’t do that. I do not believe in divorce.” 

“Your Church does not, and you do just what your 
Church tells you. That is the point I was getting at 
before. The world to-day has grown away from that 
mediaeval notion about the absolute authority of the 
Church. Men no longer believe in the indissolubility 
of marriage. Moses allowed divorce. We are re¬ 
turning to the Old Dispensation.” 

Edith sighed and let her arm fall along the edge of 
the seat with a gesture of helplessness. She wished that 
she might turn the conversation to other subjects—the 
summer tints, the fields and other impersonal things, 
but her lips quivered helplessly. It was uncanny, the 
influence of the speech of this seducer. And the worst 
of it was that she wanted to agree with him. 

“Do you think it right for two people to make each 
other unhappy? That is what it amounts to, isn’t it? 
You cannot be happy with your husband, while, on the 
other hand, he is so constituted that he can be perfectly 
happy with or without you. Family discord is a much 
more serious evil than divorce. As long as two people 
have no ambitions, tastes, or ideals in common, there is 
no law that can render them happy or the home secure. 
There is only one thing possible for them to do under 
the circumstances—separate.” 

He spoke like a sage. Never before had the argu- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 109 

ment come home to her with such cogency. He seemed 
to grasp her situation completely, and his apparent mas¬ 
tery of the problem made his language the more im¬ 
pressive. 

“Would you advise my leaving him?” she asked 
timidly. 

The question was so direct that its suddenness caught 
him off his guard. He did not know what to answer. 
For he suddenly realized that he had succeeded in per¬ 
suading her to agree with his way of thinking. His 
reply must be the death thrust. 

“Certainly!” he retorted with deliberate intent. 
“You are unhappy. You no longer love him. Why 
prolong the agony?” 

“But my child!” 

He frowned and with reason. There was no at¬ 
tempt to answer this, for no answer could be made. 

A pity, indeed! Was it not a real pity that an at¬ 
tractive but mismated young woman should be obliged 
to live a life of misery on account of a child of four or 
five? Was it not misery for him to have to pity her? 
It was either of the two emotions that confronted him 
with the thought of the child—pity for her or misery 
for himself. Why had she mentioned the child? It 
was an obex that could not be surmounted. 

Kelso Wheaton had never been accustomed to en¬ 
dure any thwarting of his desires. What he wanted he 
took, keeping as far as possible within the limits of 
propriety. And while he had a genuine desire of being 
loved by everybody, he did not fear the consequences 
of being hated. If he were a business man he would 


no THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


have ridden rough-shod over his competitor. Buy him 
out or force him out would have been his motto. 

But he was not a business man. His only competi¬ 
tors were his opponents in golf, tennis, the races. He 
did own much real estate, but it was given over to the 
exclusive management of his representative. He de¬ 
voted his activities only to the field of society. Here 
he acquired a peculiar mode of living that was not pos¬ 
sible to a man of the business world. He was a good 
fellow well met, but with no outlet for his talents or 
abilities. The arrogant optimism that was his was the 
result of this complete isolation, which forbade him 
yielding obedience to any person, creature, wealth, force 
or position. He was indifferent to material sin, and 
cared little what offense or pain he gave as long as it 
was unintentional. It was his concept of duty. He 
loved and feared his Maker only insofar as he knew 
Him. 

If he really desired Edith Colman for his wife, the 
mere matter of a divorce would not intimidate him. 
Neither would the future disposal of the child. Now¬ 
adays people seldom hesitate over the question of one 
or two children, while the State wisely provides insti¬ 
tutions for the accommodation and relief of such en¬ 
cumbrances. Of course the little girl was a hindrance 
to the consummation of his desires; she had to be con¬ 
sidered—and it was only natural for a mother to ex¬ 
press concern over her future welfare. Such problems 
were not insoluble, however. Children had figured in 
divorces before, sometimes with strange results. There 
was the case reported in the press of a mismated couple 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


III 


freed in the divorce court. Soon after each one con¬ 
tracted a fresh marriage. They had children by their 
first marriage; they now had a child each by the second 
marriage. Question: What relation were the children 
to one another? 

Babs! What was the answer he was to give to this 
embarrassing little creature? He was puzzled for a 
reply, as many persons had been puzzled before him. 

‘‘The matter of the child must be settled between 
your own selves,” was the evasive answer he made to 
this vexatious problem. And so came the end of the 
discussion, for neither of them dared refer to the sub¬ 
ject again. 

And now, when their minds and hearts were strained 
to the breaking-point, enmeshed in a web of difficulties 
from which there seemed no immediate escape, the 
two found fresh tidings of events transpiring in far-off 
Shefford which were destined to bear directly upon their 
lives and fortunes. Doris greeted their arrival home 
with the information that Mr. Colman had been sum¬ 
moned. The intelligence startled Edith, for she con¬ 
jectured the occurrence of a catastrophe. She aban¬ 
doned her bundles and the car, and fled into the house 
to learn from her husband's own lips the nature of the 
message. But he quietly informed her that it was noth¬ 
ing: just word from Jim Watson, the party-boss of 
Shefford, offering him the nomination for Congressman. 
The conference would be held next week, and it was 
imperative that he get into consultation with YV atson 
before the leaders met. 


112 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Is that all?” remarked Edith. “Mercy! I thought 
mother was dead.” 

When Kelso came in he felicitated him warmly, wish¬ 
ing him all the success in the world. He congratulated 
Edith on her husband’s good fortune, and addressed 
her as the wife of the Congressman-elect from the First 
District. But she turned away and started for the 
kitchen. At its threshold she paused. 

“That means, I suppose, we shall have to go with 
you,” she said to her husband. 

“Not at all,” said he. “There is no need of your 
leaving. I shall be back again in a few days.” 

“I think it would be well for all of us to leave to¬ 
gether,” Evelyn suggested. “We have overstayed our 
visit. . . It was so enjoyable.” 

“Now see here,” Bert interrupted, “think nothing of 
it. We have enjoyed your company more than you 
did ours. You are most welcome. I’ll skip off for a 
day or two and will join you later.” 

But Evelyn was persistent. She had decided that it 
was time to return home. They w T ould leave with him 
and drive him in their car. 

Edith turned away without a word. As she passed 
Kelso, she looked at him with an intent gaze. Then 
she left the room and went out on the veranda. 


IX 


A CONGRESSMAN’S wife! 

The suggestion at first seemed to her as ex¬ 
traordinary as it was enchanting; it thoroughly 
altered her attitude. For the while she derived a pleas¬ 
urable satisfaction from the contemplation of what this 
new and eminent dignity would mean. People would 
be glad to welcome her to their houses; she might even 
participate in the honors which would accrue to her 
husband by virtue of his position. It was sure to keep 
them in public view and probably lead to fresh oppor¬ 
tunities. The fine armor of her fastidiousness was 
penetrated, her waning interest and ambition stimulated 
to adhere to the existing order of things. 

Bert could not be the simpleton she imagined him to 
be and rise to these heights. Among his friends he 
passed as an authority on economics, and he mingled 
constantly with the kind of people that dealt in abstiact 
theories and formulas. The mere fact that he had 
been elected on a progressive ticket seemed the proof 
of intrinsic superiority. He reveled in his work. She 
doubted if, after his election, he would be any more 
attentive to her, for with his admission to Congress he 
was sure to be plunged into an amount of extraoidinary 
business which would require all his time and thought. 
To fortify herself against temptation, she resolutely 

113 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


114 

fixed her mind on the privileges which would compen¬ 
sate her for his inevitable neglect. Would she derive 
enough from the society of Washington to make up 
for what she would have to forfeit in her domestic life? 
Or would she discover this to be another disagreeable 
episode, putting the death-stroke to her happiness and 
contentment of mind? 

She had no idea of what life in the national capitol 
was like. Would she meet the Ambassadors’ wives, 
with all the fastidiousness and finesse of their courtly 
manners, the members of the Diplomatic Corps, their 
families and their retinue, the fashionable younger set 
for which the seat of government was noted? If she 
had been in Washington when the Prince of Wales was 
there would she have danced with him at the grand 
ball given by the British Embassy in his honor? Then, 
there was the President’s wife! Would she meet her if 
Robert was fortunate or clever enough to be delegated 
to consult with the President on official business? So 
many Senators and Representatives met and took lunch 
with the President at the White House during the sea¬ 
son! There were many interesting sidelights within 
the confines of public life where there would be novelty 
and variety. Life, at any rate, would be gayer, 
brighter, and more exclusive. 

In this way her happiness might be secured and her 
Congressman, after all, prove a worthy helpmate. She 
might, even, discover in him some new ideal to engage 
her attention and she might learn to put up with his 
idiosyncrasies for the sake of the good things to come. 
It would be far better than leaving him. She abhorred 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 115 

the thought of divorce. Perhaps it would prove to be 
her good fortune to be taken away from here and con¬ 
fined in Washington. It might teach her to forget 
many of her grievances, even at the cost of a thousand 
domestic heartaches. 

One day she took a train and went to Southend to 
visit the Wheatons. Here she received knowledge that 
put an end to these dreams. Kelso was there, more 
wonderful, it seemed, than ever before. He provided 
her with a stimulant, a precious compound concocted 
from sympathy and honeyed words. He took her for 
long rides in his motor car, frisked and gamboled with 
her in the water, and sat with her on the ample porch 
where they viewed together the splash and play of the 
tide and the steamers moving lazily across the horizon. 
The uncertainty of the future was vividly portrayed. 
Everything was problematical. Washington was, at 
its best, he disclosed to her, unfriencjly to the com¬ 
moner. There were hundreds of Congressmen who 
could not afford to live in the city. Only the merest 
handful of them were privileged to enter Washington 
homes. A senator was more distinguished, perhaps, 
but it must be remembered that there were nearly five 
hundred Representatives, only a few of whom rose 
above political and social mediocrity. Congress met 
but once a year, the first Monday in December, unless 
called into extraordinary session by the President, and 
this was not likely to happen in times of normalcy. 

“You cannot hope to go on as you are going,” he 
counseled her. “It is painful for a girl of your ability 
to have to minister to the wants of another so hope- 


ii6 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


lessly beneath you in everything and to be forced to 
obey him and honor him. You can think a thousand 
things beyond the power of his mind. How often have 
you shed bitter tears in secret over the ill-usage and 
neglect of him w T ho seldom thinks of you during the 
day? But, wonderful girl that you are, you smile 
throughout it all, and hold your head high before the 
world. Your love has been extinguished because you 
have had no ideal to measure up to. Your whole life 
has been a disappointment because you have never 
realized your ambitions. Your respect has been de¬ 
stroyed because you have been living with one you have 
learned to despise. Not all the marriage vows sworn 
before all the ministers in the world can hold you to 
this alliance.” 

“But what am I to do? . . . What can I do? . . . 
Don’t you see . t . ,. ?” 

“I have already told you what to do. Leave him. 
Come to me. I am able to make you happy.” 

She flinched a trifle. It was not the first time he had 
proposed this to her, but she had not yet grown used 
to it. He saw the indecision on her face and followed 
up his advantage. 

“I have everything to offer you. If you want to live 
in Washington I shall attend to that. It is not too 
much for me to say that I am considered a man of 
means and I can have anything I want. You, too, can 
have anything that money can buy. There is a splendid 
home awaiting you. My sisters will welcome you. 
The entree to all the best homes in the country is 
yours. . . .” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 117 

“I can’t do it ... I can’t . . 

“Because you fear divorce. I have told you what a 
simple thing it is to get a divorce to-day. Go out to 
Nevada and register in a hotel. Return in six months 
and obtain your decree. Use desertion as the ground. 
He won’t contest the case if you leave him the little 
girl” 

In a terrible conflict, with these honeyed words ring¬ 
ing in her ears, Edith returned home after the week¬ 
end to face a fresh crisis. It would not have taken 
much to swerve her either way, for in her excitement 
she had reached the point where decision hung in the 
balance. Unfortunately Bert was in none too genial a 
mood. He observed the discontent and ill humor on 
her face, when he expected it to be covered with smiles, 
and he grew irritable and impatient. This was the first 
time they had met in four days and neither of them 
seemed to have a word of friendly greeting. 

They sat down to table in silence. She made several 
overtures to speak, finding the silence oppressive, but 
he heeded her not. Babs began to tell her about school 
—she had been attending about a week—and the funny 
things some of the boys and girls did. She listened 
absently and stole glances at the expression of her hus¬ 
band’s countenance across the table. It held an angry 
message for her. 

“I had a woman to see me to-day,” he said. 

She paid no attention to the remark. 

“She introduced herself as Mrs. Liggett. Do you 
know her?” 


ii8 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


This time she looked up at him in astonishment and 
met his menacing stare. 

“A friend of the Wheatons,” he continued. 

“What did she want?” she asked defiantly. 

“She came for no good purpose, I assure you.” 

“I suppose she came to tell you about me?” she 
asked nervously. 

“Then it is true?” 

“Is what true?” 

“What she had to say? I didn’t listen to her—I 
asked her to leave the office—but M t . : . i!” 

“What did she want, then?” 

“I don’t know. Yet I suspect. I told you I didn’t 
give her a hearing.” ✓ 

“Well,” she said, “what do you propose to do?” 

“Nothing at all. What can I do? I tell you the 
interview was brought to a sudden end.” 

“I suppose she advised you to watch me?” 

He deigned no reply. 

“And you believed her, and made up your mind to 
come home and chide me.” She laughed as she added, 
“Don’t you think it a little too late for that?” 

He stared at her, one hand drumming on the table. 
The blood rose in his temples. 

“Too late!” he repeated. “What do you mean?” 

A sudden impatience mastered her. She arose im¬ 
petuously, threw her napkin on the table, and hurried 
from the room. He made no effort to restrain her. 
Bidding the surprised child remain alone and finish her 
"dessert he followed his wife to the front room where 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 119 

he found her caressing tenderly a pink rosebud that pro¬ 
truded from a slender vase on the piano. 

“Don’t you think it time we came to some sort of 
understanding before this goes too far?” he asked, 
drawing near to where she stood. 

“Understanding!” she scoffed. 

“Yes,” he rejoined. “Let us try to get together. 
We do not understand each other.” 

“Isn’t it pretty late to begin?” she taunted, with 
sarcasm. 

“Isn’t this the proper time to begin?” he asked. 
“We have our faults, you and I. Suppose we try to 
rectify them? That’s what I mean by coming to an 
understanding.” 

She stood motionless. 

“What have I done? I tell you I pay no attention 
to gossip, but I am not foolish enough to be blind to 
what has been going on. What have I done to bring 
about this unhappiness?” 

Still there came no answer. 

“I am ready to go more than half-way if there is 
anything I can do.” 

“Impossible!” she said. 

“Don’t say that, Edith.” 

“You would have to be made over.” 

His face clouded. 

“Does—does this mean—that you no longer care 
for me?” 

She deigned no reply, but turning her back on him 
went to the sofa and threw herself upon it. 

“Are you not happy?” he asked, following her. 


i2o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


No answer. 

“For God’s sake talk to me,” he pleaded. “There 
is nothing I won’t do for you—nothing.” 

He sat beside her, trying to take her hand. 

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, drawing away from 
him. 

He sat up without a word, and gazed at her in a tur¬ 
moil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him as 
if he were not speaking to his wife but to another 
woman to whom he was bound by some spell that he 
ought to shake off, but could not. 

“My God!” he muttered. “Do you detest me that 
much?” 

To his surprise her color rose, reluctant and vivid. 
Mournfully she looked at him and addressed him. 

“Life isn't what it should be for either of us, Bert. 
It has been a great mistake. I came to that conclusion 
some time ago. We were never intended for each 
other. You have never loved me; you only thought 
you did. Why continue this farce?” 

Speechless, he heard her, stricken with pain at the 
wounds inflicted by that soft and beloved hand. The 
words struck the chords of his memory and the whole 
of his life passed in review before him. He had done 
the best he could for her, he knew, but it had never 
dawned on him that she was unhappy. 

“It is better, isn’t it?” she went on. 

“Better!” he gasped, without comprehending what 
was meant. 

“We shall hurt no one, I am only living in your 
house, » . 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 121 

He sprang to his feet and stood before her, looking 
down upon her in a rage. 

“What do you mean?” he cried. “Haven’t I done 
everything to make you happy, to make you proud of 
me, to make myself worthy of you? Haven’t I been 
faithful to you? Surely, you entertain no such view of 
life as to want to dissolve what God hath put together? 
You don’t mean what you say! Consider your obliga¬ 
tions—not the satisfaction of your own desires. It is 
not true that free love is the principle of marriage any 
more than that marriage ceases when love ceases. . . . 
Never was matrimony intended to depend upon the va¬ 
garies of human affection. You have told me you no 
longer love me. For God’s sake, girl, don’t say that. 
You are unreasonable, you are ungrateful to think it, 
let alone say it. Haven’t you been happy here?” 

“No!” she replied, deliberately. “I only thought so. 
I never was.” 

“Never . . . !” he repeated. 

She shook her head, a deep sigh escaped her. 

“Not—not happy?” 

His voice was breaking under the emotion that 
surged like a storm within him. 

“You have been kind enough, but-” 

He walked away, wringing his hands like one in 
despair. Suddenly he turned and confronted her. 

“But—what—what do you propose doing?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You think this is—worse? To go on living this 

on 

way: 



122 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“A thousand times, yes 1 ” There was a pause, then 
she quickly added: 

“The truth is hard, but to go on deceiving ourselves 
is infinitely worse.” 

“Can’t we begin over? Can’t we learn from our 
shortcomings? Our child! Have you thought of 
her?” 

For the moment she hesitated. Her fingers inter¬ 
locked on her lap and fell apart again. At length she 
murmured: 

“For her I stayed. Otherwise I would have gone 
long ago.” 

“Gone?” he reiterated and dropped spiritless on the 
piano bench. He kept his eyes fastened on her rigid 
form, her cold countenance, and wondered why she did 
not return his look or venture any reply. 

“What about our home?” 

“It is yours—and hers. Keep it for her. 

“But your Faith?” he reminded her. “You cannot 
be true to it and fly in the face of its dogmas. The 
Church will never countenance this separation.” 

“Oh, well!” she sighed. 

“You can’t be thinking of divorce?” 

No answer. 

“And people! What will they say?” 

This had the desired effect. 

“What will they say?” she asked in defiance. “Do 
you suppose I consider what they are going to say? 
I act to please myself, not people.” 

“Edith,” he cautioned her, “you do not dare to con¬ 
demn custom. Popular opinion is almost omnipotent. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 123 


It governs the world more effectively than laws. No 
sooner has a man committed a sin against society than 
a deep remorse pursues him like a Nemesis. He has 
no peace of mind, but torture of soul and body. He 
is obliged to suppress his identity. He becomes an out¬ 
cast. He flees into oblivion in the hope that oblivion 
will bury him forever. You know that, don’t you? 
Self-respect, if nothing else, obliges you to take into 
consideration what people will say.” 

“I must make up my mind, then, which is right— 
society or I.” 

“You read that in some book.” 

“And I am not convinced but what it is right.” 

“To leave one’s home, husband, children!” 

“For love!” she corrected. “What else has a 
woman but love to live for?” 

“The will to love,” he replied. 

“Then our life has been a failure,” she declared al¬ 
most contemptuously. 

“Without love?” 

“Without love,” was the frigid reply. 

He had no consciousness of thought, he had no sense 
of the lapse of time as he sat there like one in a stupor. 
It was past eight o’clock, though he scarcely knew it. 
Amazement first, that seemed to crush down upon his 
whole soul and crowd out every other emotion, took 
hold of him, then a jumbled confusion of thoughts, 
finally despair. Was this Edith, the wife, the mother, 
the one whom he prided himself on having for a part¬ 
ner? What was this deadly dissension that had arisen 
in their lives? And where was the serpent that had 


124 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


poisoned her mind against him? He did not strive to 
seek the reason; there was no reason, for he questioned 
whether or not she realized the awful import of her 
words. She was fighting against herself as surely as 
fate, and paradoxically, it was her own weakness that- 
was strengthening her. She had said she did not love 
him. She had said that! It seemed as if she meant 
it. Nevermore, then, could he hope for happiness. 
Her heart . . . ! A tomb, containing ashes of a love 
that once lived. He recoiled from the sinister meta¬ 
phor, and dark despair descended upon him and bore 
him down. 

A thousand resolutions came to him, as he chided 
himself for his part in this tragedy. He accused him¬ 
self of being its sole cause. He was encouraged to 
rise to better things. A woman is ready to pardon an 
indiscretion at any time, but an inattention never. He 
mused over this axiom, and considered the multitude 
of times he had transgressed it. All because of his 
diligence and industry! He had prided himself, fool 
that he was, on being worthy the love of the best of 
women. He knew now that he was not. He resolved, 
therefore, to cast all industry, all care to the winds, to 
partake freely of the rounds of pleasure, the theater, 
cards, society. Yes, he even resolved to learn the danc¬ 
ing that she loved. After all, perhaps, he was entirely 
to blame for this catastrophe. 

He was cheered as he considered how he was going 
to win back the love that was lost. His life was going 
to be a tournament with a maiden for a prize, a maiden 
he did not know at all, a maiden of strange whims and 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 125 

fancies, and as strange and as novel as any heroine of 
fiction. He was going to woo this fair creature; he 
was going to make her bring her stamp down upon him 
and fashion him to her liking. He would send her 
roses, American Beauties, her favorite flower, as he 
had been wont to do years before. He would get 
tickets for the theater, give her trips to New York 
and Atlantic City. Yes, he would even visit the shops 
with her and help to pick out gowns to her liking! He 
saw her pleased and happy throughout it all, and his 
heart began to beat with exultation. Kelso Wheaton 
was his adversary, and he knew it, and he was ready 
to run him through with the spear of valor and courtesy. 

“Come,” he said now, rising, “let bygones be by¬ 
gones. The future will witness a transformation.” 

“Too late! Too late!” she exclaimed. 

“Do you mean that we-?” 

He could not finish, but stood with arms outstretched 
in an appealing gesture. 

“I mean that I have made up my mind to go.” 

“You—are going away?” 

She nodded assent. 

“It is for the best. God knows how I have fought 
against it. You can divorce me. I shall not come 
back.” 

“Divorce!” 

“It’s the only way out.” 

“Edith!” he said, and stretched out his hands. 

But she was imperturbable. 



X 


S HE left him. Going upstairs to her room she 
paused to listen if he were coming behind her. 
Then she locked the door. 

The darkness was terrifying, yet she preferred it. 
She would have preferred anything just now to the 
misery of this house. She hated it, she hated every¬ 
thing in it, even her own self, and she did not want 
to start from their slumbers any old memories by flood¬ 
ing the chamber with light. Standing with her back to 
the door like one pursued by a horrible nightmare even 
into her waking moments she looked about her, her 
whole being tense with emotion. A glimmer across the 
room startled her, but it was nothing—just a beam from 
the vase on her dresser which caught the errant ray 
of a street lamp. A small voice, garrulous and hurried, 
told out the seconds in the dark. It reminded her of 
an accusing angel taunting her for her misdeeds. Tak¬ 
ing two or three steps in the direction of the bed she 
flung herself into it and buried her head with all its 
sorrowful thoughts in the depth of the pillows. There 
were no tears. Deep emotion gripped her, preventing 
her from giving expression to her grief. 

What was uppermost in her mind was the thought 
of Bab. Try as she would she could not dispel her 
image. It loomed before her, real, tangible, not the 

126 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 127 


picture of a little girl who thought and spoke as a 
child, but a grown-up woman, the debutante of the 
season, with a will of her own. What would the years 
bring to her without the loving care and counsel of a 
mother? Into what sort of a character would she 
develop? Would she grow into womanhood with a 
fearful apprehension of her mother’s sin and hate her 
for her wanton self-indulgence? It would be appalling 
to have her wrong-doing visited upon her only child. 
The future passed before her in a procession of scenes 
frescoed on the darkness above her as she tried to single 
out the niche in life that would be occupied by this 
grown-up girl fifteen years hence. But the dim outline 
of the light fixture alone stood out against the dark 
curtain overhead, and took away the figures from the 
scene. The pendant bulb held her attention and re¬ 
minded her of the unfortunate victim chained to the 
cold, stone floor of the pit, enduring a thousand deaths 
as he anxiously watched the measured strokes of the 
slowly descending Pendulum narrow the distance be-* 
tween him and eternity. Secretly she wished that she 
were in his place, waiting, waiting for the approaching 
stroke to come and make an end of her miserable ex¬ 
istence. There were no sufferings of the body com¬ 
parable with the tortures of the soul. 

Hark! There was some one else in the room, some 
invisible presence, from which she shrank with cowardly 
fear. Her heart pounded out a message of consterna¬ 
tion and dismay as she turned from the spectacle and 
buried her face in the pillow. It was the ghost of 
herself, but she did not know it; it was the angel who 


128 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


had been appointed her guardian years before, come to 
warn her of her folly. Soon she seemed to hear whis¬ 
pered syllables, soft syllables that fell ever so lightly, 
and gently crept against her ear. 

“Think well of what thou dost before relentless re¬ 
morse penetrates the marrow of thy soul!” 

She heard the voice distinctly, although it no longer 
frightened her. It was a plaintive voice, yet its ex¬ 
pression was like one who spoke with authority. It 
continued: 

“Thy child! What of her! Hast thou given thought 
to the responsibility from which thou wouldst shrink? 
Knowest thou not that thou hast given life to this being 
and hast been appointed guardian of a sacred trust? 
Thy sin! Shall it be visited upon her in the years to 
come? It has been written, ‘The inheritance of the 
children of sinners shall perish, and with their posterity 
shall be a perpetual reproach.’ ” 

“No! No!” Edith w T hispered, and covered her ears 
with the fold of the pillow. 

“Thinkest thou to barter public esteem for personal 
liberty,” the voice went on, “or to sacrifice right conduct 
to individual preferment? Alas! The story of those 
who have gone before thee, who have contemned so¬ 
ciety through their own voluptuousness, who have set 
up cradles of luxury in irregular homes and presented 
in the midst of disorder a semblance of order is a tale 
of harrowing deceit. Shalt thou be included in the 
number of these deluded fools? Hast thou reckoned 
with the future? The end of the voyage, not the be¬ 
ginning, is the anxiety of the mariner.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 129 

She gasped in horror. The chiding voice ceased; 
only the garrulous clock with its rhythmic, incessant 
chatter filled the hollows of the room, and re-echoed 
through her confused brain. 

“Wait-a-bit, wait-a-bit, wait-a-bit,” it cautioned hkr. 

Confusion! Never had she experienced such a non¬ 
descript jumble of images. There was the present, 
tangible, intolerable. There was the future, insecure, 
uncertain and—promising. Here was a dilemma. Life 
was opening before her as a colossal failure tinged with 
disgrace and her instinct prompted her to avoid that 
disgrace which was flavored with death. Even if her 
intelligence did apprise her of the disappointments that 
awaited her return to the old manner of living with 
one she could not possibly love or understand, her in¬ 
stinct was unsparing in regard to the awful uncertain¬ 
ties of the second estate. She was entering into part¬ 
nership with a man with whom she was scarcely on 
equal footing. What security did Kelso hold out to 
her with his class privileges, extravagant tastes, and 
social superiority? She raised herself from the bed 
with a struggle as if she had been bound to it body 
and soul. The Pendulum was there, just above her, 
approaching nearer and nearer, soon to cut her free 
from all earthly tribulations. O God! She should 
have prayed, but could not. 

Presently she thought of the door. She had locked 
it but she had no right to do it. It must be opened, 
and at once, before her husband’s steps began to echo 
on the stairs. She must not wait until he came to it 
and beat on its panels or rattled the knob noisily, fore- 


130 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

ing her to obey. The door must be open when he 
came, for she was still his wife. 

Reluctantly she arose, defeated but unconquered. 
Pride seized her, and urged her on to bitter things. 
The realization that she was compelled to obey the 
impulse of opening that door steeled her heart to cru¬ 
elty. If she were overcome, her pride was not. And 
she would turn the key, yes. Excitement, expectancy 
of better things, the pleasure of imagined victory over 
an antagonist—her husband was that!—somewhat akin 
to that emotion which holds the athlete in the stadium 
when he wrests the wreath of contest and gains the 
admiration of the multitude—this was the quality of 
emotion from which she presently derived the greatest 
relief. She was determined to show her husband who 
was right—society or she. She had told him of her 
decision. Now he would learn the value of her word. 
She began to pray, and it was for courage. 

In the adjoining room was her sleeping child. Babs! 
Precious Babs! Another force, mightier than ever, 
rose up within her and threatened to stifle her with its 
vehemence and intensity. It was the force of mother 
love. It tore her heart-strings with its insatiable desire 
and brought to her a greater realization of her duty 
than she had ever before experienced. For the first 
time in her life she felt the pang of motherhood and 
the craving of the maternal instinct. For what better 
purpose do men live, for what nobler purpose do they 
die than for their own flesh and blood! Here was 
flesh of her flesh and blood of her blood, her child, 
not somebody else’s child, not her husband’s, her 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 131 

brother’s, her sister’s. It was hers—hers—hers. She 
opened the door cautiously and peered out. Stealing 
into the room, she turned on the soft light and gazed 
at the face of her sleeping offspring. It was like seeing 
her own self. 

The little breast rose and fell perceptibly. One hand 
lay outside the clothes, the tiny fist clenched about an 
imaginary toy. The little lips were slightly parted in 
the semblance of a smile! How sweet that day when 
they uttered their first symbol, “Mamma”! The little 
tooth that came one night and she found it in the 
morning when she put her finger into the tender mouth! 
How happy she was in the knowledge that her baby 
was growing, getting bigger and stronger day by day. 
And then she walked! Not far, but just from the 
rocking chair to her lap, and fell into it. She was a 
darling baby, nurtured by her own hands, kissed thou¬ 
sands of times by her own lips, cuddled and petted. And 
here she was peacefully asleep, wholly innocent of the 
tragedy about to be enacted in this very house. Who 
would suffer most for this vanity, selfishness, incon¬ 
stancy? Stooping, the mother kissed the ruddy cheek, 
not once or twice, but many times. She stroked the 
ringlets that fell away in wavy confusion from the vein- 
streaked forehead. She took the little hand and patted 
it. HerBabs! Her child! The little one stirred and 
the mother drew back, dreading to face the opened 
eyes. She stole softly away, as softly as she had come, 
switching off the lights and closing the door. 

Outside she paused for strength, her hand on the 
knob, undecided whether or not to return to the room. 


132 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

But her temporary indecision soon gave way to marked 
determination, and the new woman within her gained 
ascendancy over the old. There were voices down¬ 
stairs. The doctor! This satisfied her—it was his 
evening call—a usual occurrence. But what was that? 
A deep, resonant voice. And it was doing the talking. 

“No,” the voice pronounced, like one having author¬ 
ity, “only one marriage is possible in the Church; and 
if that contract has been validly entered into and the 
union consummated, no power on earth can dissolve it.” 

So they were talking about divorce! 

“This has always been the teaching of the Church, 
and this because of the Scriptures. It so happened, 
if you chance to recall, that the Pharisees approached 
Our Saviour one day with a question concerning the 
dissolubility of marriage, asking Him if it were lawful 
for a man to put away his wife for every cause. ‘For 
this cause shall a man leave father and mother and 
shall cleave to his wife,’ He replied, ‘and they two shall 
be in one flesh. What, therefore, God hath joined to¬ 
gether let no man put asunder.’ The Pharisees then 
reminded Him that Moses permitted the people to give 
a bill of divorce. To which He replied: ‘Moses, by 
reason of the hardness of your heart, permitted you to 
put away your wives; but from the beginning it was 
not so. And I say to you,’ He solemnly reminded them, 
‘that whosoever shall put away his wife, except it be 
for fornication and shall marry another, committeth 
adultery; and he that shall marry her that is put away, 
committeth adultery.’ ” 

She shut the door, quite unwilling to give her ear to 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


i33 


any further exhibition of such pedantry. Evidently this 
mysterious guest was a churchman, an exegetist of the 
Scriptures, a friend of Dr. Dahill, perhaps, summoned 
here by her husband to pass judgment on the theologi¬ 
cal aspect of divorce. The trio were engaged in pre¬ 
paring an indictment, intending to summon her in due 
time before their self-constituted tribunal. But she 
would circumvent them. Yielding momentarily to a 
curious desire to learn more she let the door swing 
open again. 

“The Church will never sanction divorce?” she heard 
her husband ask. 

“Absolute divorce—no!” came the measured re¬ 
sponse. “Separation from bed and board—yes! This 
secures the happiness of the innocent party and metes 
out no injustice to the guilty.” 

“There are exceptions, of course-” 

“Persons have been known to marry the second time, 
owing to the fact that the first marriage might be in¬ 
valid because of the existence of a diriment impediment 
which was never dispensed from by lawful authority.” 

“For instance—” suggested the doctor. 

“Blood-relationship, legal adoption, and so forth. 
These are impediments which must be removed before 
the contract becomes valid.” 

“And a valid marriage can never be dissolved?” 

“Never! The Church cannot act in a manner con¬ 
tradictory to the teachings of her Founder.” 

“What about society-?” 

“Its interests are safeguarded. If the permanence 
of the marriage bond is permitted to depend upon the 




134 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


vagaries of human affection a host of evil consequences 
were bound to result. It is unavoidable. Divorce 
obliterates family life, gives no stability to the parent¬ 
age of children, defiles the sanctity of the home and 
paralyzes all our nobler aims and activities.” 

Edith was on the point of again shutting the door, 
when a question, proposed by her husband, made her 
pause once more. 

“Let us suppose the wife obtains her decree and 
remarries. Will the Church recognize or ratify that 
second contract?” 

“Not until death intervenes, and removes the first 
husband from the scene,” came the response. 

“And she forfeits her membership in the Church?” 
Bert persisted. 

There was no answer to this. She presumed the 
divine was nodding his head. 

“Forever?” her husband repeated. 

“Just so long as she persists in sin. Absolution, you 
know, is never denied the penitent soul, but it presup¬ 
poses contrition and amendment. This would include, 
of course, an absolute rejection of the unholy alliance 
and a return to single life.” 

“The second spouse?” 

“Must be separated from.” 

“A refusal would mean-” 

“No participation in the sacramental system of the 
Church, forfeiture of membership and deprivation of 
Christian burial.” 

Enraged with herself for having given ear to this 
conversation Edith shut the door almost violently. She 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 135 

was smarting from the suspicion that lurked in her 
mind, that she was the subject of the colloquy, and she 
became indignant and humiliated. She vowed she would 
never, never forgive Robert Colman for subjecting her 
to this. To invite guests into her house to discuss the 
delinquencies of a disobedient wife! She was seized 
with a sudden impulse—she would face her judges and 
reply to their accusations. She turned on the light 
and looked at herself in the glass. Her hair was 
disheveled and she arranged it. Her nose was shiny 
and she gave it a dab or two of powder. She changed 
her dress, and opening the door descended the stairs 
carelessly and stood at the threshold of the living room. 
Here she paused. 

It pleased her to note the look of surprise that 
greeted her. They stood up quickly, looking towards 
the doorway where she stood, surveying them with con¬ 
temptuous disdain. Never did a Susanna visit more 
reproachful glances upon her false accusers than did 
this slip of a girl as she stood motionless with her 
dark, hazel eyes fixed on those she thought her censors 
in a sweeping gaze. She was in waist and skirt that 
fitted close to the gracious lines of her slender figure, 
her bare throat quivering with her breathing, quickened 
by the emotion that surged within her. Her lips were 
set, her rounded cheeks heightened to a deep rose color, 
her thin brows divided by a furrow of anger that 
seemed to cleave its way deep into her brain. She did 
not speak, but stared defiantly with just the merest 
sneer starting from her bow-shaped lips. Bert it was 
who broke the silence. 


136 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Why, my dear, I thought you had retired!” 

She did not reply to this but lifted her eyes and 
gazed at him. 

“This is the Reverend Dr. Hunt,” her husband con¬ 
tinued, indicating the presence of the churchman with 
a slight gesture. “Dr. Hunt, my wife.” 

Edith acknowledged the clergyman’s modest bow. 

“He is a friend of Dr. Dahill’s. They came in a 
short time ago. I would have called you but I thought 
you were in bed.” 

He offered her his chair, which she took, after ex¬ 
changing greetings with their friend. 

“I am glad you have come, doctor,” she said to the 
divine. “I believe you were discussing the moral as¬ 
pects of divorce. I heard you upstairs.” 

“Just so,” agreed the clergyman, in the gracious 
manner which was his. He was tall, inclined to be 
portly, brimful of mirth and joviality, and dignified, 
with the air of one accustomed to the treatment of 
momentous matters. His address was always pleasing; 
his face smile-wrinkled. No one had any difficulty in 
feeling at perfect ease in his presence. 

“We were discussing the consequences of that per¬ 
nicious evil,” he went on. “It is not a pleasant theme.” 

“But I am interested,” Edith persisted in a tone that 
indicated her earnestness. “Is it so terribly wrong for 
one who is supremely unhappy to want to escape from 
the torture chamber of her own making?” 

“There is limited divorce, of course,” Dr. Hunt sug¬ 
gested with a twinkle playing about the corner of his 
eye. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


i37 


“Yes, I know,” she nodded. “I know that. Some¬ 
thing like imprisoning a poor fellow for life instead 
of sending him to the chair. Which is the more humane 
punishment?” 

Her logic was unanswerable, but she was arguing the 
wrong side. At what was she driving? He looked to 
Mr. Colman for relief. But the relief did not come. 

“But his misconduct has rendered his right to liberty 
forfeit; which is not the same as death,” Dr. Dahill 
observed. 

“A man is not compelled to live with another man 
unless he likes,” she said cautiously. “The man to 
whom the society of a woman is a menace should have 
the same right to sweep the nightmare aside.” 

“Expect for the law—” counseled the priest. 

“Are we bound by unjust laws?” 

“You think the marriage contract an unjust law?” 

“In its indissolubility, yes! It is unnatural.” 

“Unnatural! But it protects the home, it safeguards 
the State. Doubtless, this does prove irksome to indi¬ 
viduals, but laws, generally, are framed not for the 
individual but for the greater good and for society in 
general. If the divine law forbids the discontented wife 
or husband from contracting a fresh alliance it is for the 
purpose of securing the welfare of the State. Does 
not this sacrifice of the rights of the individual occur 
in our everyday experience? An epidemic breaks out 
and the doctor here issues an order by authority of the 
Board of Health which restricts the freedom of your 
coming and going, your eating and drinking. He closes 
the theaters against you; he forbids you to associate 


i 3 8 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


with your neighbors; he prohibits your leaving your 
own house—and you obey him. A fire breaks out in 
your neighborhood and the policeman interferes with 
your right of way. You never question him. The 
soldier in battle sacrifices his individual rights hourly 
for the general good of the army. The sailor has no 
rights in relation to the welfare of the passengers on 
the ship. In fact, the whole scheme of our existence 
is based on the surrender of the individual good to the 
better interests of the community. And no cry of in¬ 
justice is ever raised against this stringent legislation.” 

“I cannot see the application,” she declared. “There 
can be only one motive for marriage. Mutual happi¬ 
ness.” 

“You know, of course, that such a statement is ab¬ 
surd,” Dr. Hunt replied good-naturedly. 

“I was never more serious,” she retorted. “Our 
grandmothers were forced by economic conditions to do 
domestic drudgery, bear, and bury children. But the 
woman of to-day is not economically dependent on man. 
She is not compelled to become married or to submit 
to hardship and stay married.” 

“You are quoting from the feminist journals. Did 
you learn to read them at college? Most girls’ colleges, 
I understand, are amply supplied with them.” 

She felt like replying, “Yes, and a good many other 
things,” but self-respect bade her hold her tongue. 

“The saddest thing in the world, next to death, is 
the destruction of the home,” said the divine. 

“Yet to live in unhappiness is living death,” Edith 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 139 

interjected. “Nothing is worse than living with one 
you despise.” 

“That depends. Very often it is the result of pride. 
One does not want to give in to the other. A married 
couple must not be foolish enough to expect perfection 
in their relations. They must establish their domicile 
on unselfishness and be ready to sacrifice a great many 
things. But if a woman is insistent upon an independent 
career I doubt if she can be happy.” 

“Suppose neither of the two can understand the 
other!” 

“I would have them learn. It is character that counts 
in the long run.” 

Edith saw how impossible it was to continue this 
discussion, with neither willing nor able to surrender the 
slightest advantage to the other. She knew it to be 
Dr. Hunt’s duty to defend the sanctity of the marriage 
bond, therefore his arguments were all one-sided. No 
clergyman could possibly know the true condition of 
wedlock when viewed from the outside. Marriages are 
not all made in heaven, for the devil very often has 
his hand in them—and for unions such as these, divorce 
is a necessary provision. What he said was true enough 
—but there were flaws in his reasoning somewhere 
which she was not capable of detecting. If Kelso were 
only here he would pick them out and she smiled as 
she thought of the eminent divine matching his wits 
with the clever Kelso. 

She arose with the suggestion that they forget their 
differences over a cup of tea which met with general 
approval. While she busied herself in the kitchen the 


140 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

conversation began anew on the one topic that mattered 
insofar as Bert was concerned—the matter of election. 
Everything, life and death itself, seemed to him to hinge 
on the result of election day. He thought of it con¬ 
tinually, and staked all his hopes, all his ambitions, his 
purposes and concern on that issue alone. 

The following evening, when he returned for dinner, 
he found his wife gone. 

His instinct seemed to whisper to him, as he opened 
the door that everything was not going to be right. 
Tie had meant to have another talk with her, but he 
had had no time that morning, and besides, he felt that 
if he entered into any argument it would knock him 
out for the rest of the day, particularly since he was 
in the midst of the campaign and w r as scheduled to 
address a business men’s luncheon at one o’clock. There 
was another rally on the program for to-night but that 
did not come until nine o’clock. Two hours would 
give him all the time he needed, he told himself, to 
bring her to her senses. 

Bab met him as soon as he crossed the threshold, 
and threw herself sobbing into his arms. This startled 
him. He picked her up and shut the door behind him. 

“Mother went away this afternoon with Mr. Whea¬ 
ton,” the little one sobbed, “and she kissed me a whole 
lot.” 

He stood perfectly rigid. Then, closing his eyes, 
he yielded to the force of the blow. His brain began 
to whirl and his knees trembled under him, making him 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 141 

sway backwards and forwards. It was some minutes 
before he collected himself enough to realize what had 
taken place. 

There stood, just inside the door, a console on which 
rested a black, slender vase holding a tall lily. A letter 
rested against the vase, and he perceived it over Bab’s 
shoulder, recognizing the writing at once. It was ad¬ 
dressed to him. Seizing it frantically, he tore it open. 
It read: 

Dear Bert: 

I hope I am acting for the best. For that reason I have left. 
There is no other way out. I waited for the miracle to happen, 
and it did not. Do not seek me; I shall remain in seclusion 
until you are elected. After that neither of us need to care. 

Edith. 

The letter fell from his hands. He crushed the 
hapless child to his breast, and his eyes filled with tears. 

“She is not coming back, Babs. She is not—coming 
—back.” 


XI 


T HERE are degrees of death. It is not merely the 
tragic act of the separation of the soul from the 
body, the supreme penalty which Providence has 
constituted for every man for sin. Death is present in 
life. After the heartless perfidy of the wife or the base 
ingratitude of the child, the crushing stroke of misfor¬ 
tune or the instantaneous collapse of ambition and repu¬ 
tation, there comes a queer taste in the mouth that sa¬ 
vors of death. It salts life’s sweets, mocks hopes, em¬ 
bitters all smiles. The heart is stifled. In the frame of 
what was once a man it pulsates with the monotonous 
action of the hairspring of a watch. 

Bert was now situated in this strange estate; the 
tyranny of this tragedy influenced his peace and security 
of mind, and days and nights no longer meant anything 
to him. They were hateful phenomena, endured with 
the constantly recurring hope that the evenings would 
soon be mornings and the mornings evenings. Nothing 
stirred him to enthusiasm; not even the strenuous cam¬ 
paign he was conducting. He wandered from platform 
to platform in obedience to the program of arrange¬ 
ments furnished him by the Campaign Committee, but 
wherever he went he saw the hazy outlines of his ab¬ 
sconding wife projected before him. He doubled and. 
redoubled on his tracks, glad to mingle with the crowd, 


142 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 143 

but oblivious of their presence. The noise seemed to 
intoxicate him, yet he saw little of the sights that con¬ 
fronted his eyes. He dared not be alone. He felt that 
his sanity depended on his intercourse with the multi- 
tude, and he was like a small boy in a large empty lot 
gazing dumbfounded at a procession of people wending 
their merry way along a distant road. 

Were it not for the spirited campaign in which he 
was engaged he would have gone mad. In the time of 
intense sorrow application to duty furnishes the greatest 
diversion. The election promised to be the most bit¬ 
terly contested in years. Never before, perhaps, was 
so much acrimony and ill-feeling injected into a political 
conflict. It was the League of Nations controversy 
that created the antipathy, and gave a well-defined 
platform to the two leading parties. The previous 
spring the Senate had rejected the Treaty of Peace with 
Germany precisely because of the League of Nations 
sponsored by the President, and Mr. Wilson very 
promptly decided to submit the whole matter to a na¬ 
tional referendum. The people were asked to render 
the final decision. Was it for the best interests of 
the country to permit itself to be engaged in foreign 
entanglements and to lend its active support to a world 
association for the maintenance of peace, or, on the 
other hand, was it better to reject the League, and 
preserve thereby the traditional attitude of the United 
States in its policy of non-involvement in Old World 
affairs? The question was momentous. 

Because of his domestic difficulties it was impossible 
for Bert to rise to the heights expected of a candidate. 


144 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


Here was a matter that concerned the future policy of 
the nation—yet he could not become enthused over it. 
Each day was torturing and abnormal. He had made 
a discovery that amazed himself—a discovery that 
thousands of men had made before him: that his truest 
and most necessary friend in the whole world was his 
wife. Scarcely had he appreciated her real value. And 
now she was gone, gone like a phantom ship, perhaps 
to appear never again. Was it any wonder the national 
situation failed to affect him? What mattered most to 
his mind was: Where is she? What is to become of the 
little girl? What am I going to do after the excitement 
of election is over? No word had come from her since 
he had read the fatal letter but Dr. Dahill had whis¬ 
pered to him that she had left the city. But this was 
only a surmise. How could he know? Kelso Wheaton 
was not with her, for he had been seen on Main Street 
only the other day. She was not at her mother’s home, 
for inquiry there had brought no news. Strange 
enough! She might have taken her mother, at least, 
into her confidence. 

He was dismayed, but not so much dismayed as 
desperate. He tried to console himself that time would 
teach her to repent of her misdeed, but this was empty 
satisfaction. The true fact of the matter was, he had 
never been so much in love with his wife before, or if 
he had been, he had never before quite realized it. These 
honors that were about to come upon him. . . . How 
gladly would he thrust them aside for a return of her 
love! His precious Babs was without a mother! 
Without a mother . . . ! The concept was crushing. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 145 

So his thoughts ran on day by day, depressing, dis¬ 
heartening, his ardor quenched in the midst of so much 
commotion. He was a nervous wreck from the strain 
of mind and body—campaigning for election, distracted 
mentally, suffering from a broken heart. He had not 
slept in weeks, and wondered presently how much 
longer he could hold out. Each day brought with it 
feelings of renewed hope, but night came on and ex¬ 
tinguished these sanguine anticipations. Unless he 
heard from her soon he thought that he would go 
mad. It was the uncertainty that was killing him. That, 
and the terrible sense of hopelessness. 

Election Day came and went, leaving behind it the 
verdict of the people. The League of Nations was 
rejected. Bert was swept into office with the landslide 
to his great surprise. He had hoped for the best, but 
his had not been the effort of a successful candidate. 
Tie had won honors but he had lost. 

In the midst of so much rejoicing on the part of the 
successful candidates, telegrams and letters by the hun¬ 
dred, messages of congratulation, expressions of good¬ 
will, came the first news concerning her whereabouts. 
The mail brought a letter from an attorney’s office 
serving on him a summons and complaint. He was 
ordered to appear before the Superior Court to answer 
unto Edith Colman and so on. . . . She had kept her 
word. She was going to divorce him, but not until 
after election. Election Day yesterday, the summons 
to-day. She was prompt. It interested him to learn 
the nature of the complaint. Mental cruelty! He 
smiled, a forced smile. There was no mention of ali- 


146 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

mony, or the custody of the child. Desertion! That 
was all. 

That night he sent for Dr. Dahill. 

“Congratulations, old man! We’re proud of you!” 

“Thanks, Doc.” 

“My, what a vote! I suppose every woman in the 
country voted. Guess that’s the end of the League.” 

“Yes, I guess so,” assented the Congressman-elect. 

“Well, now that you’re elected,” continued the doc¬ 
tor, walking about the room, “what do you propose 
to do?” 

He found the leather easy-chair he liked, and extract¬ 
ing a cigar from his vest-pocket, he bit off the end. 

Bert returned no answer to his inquiry, but shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“I know what you ought to do—go away. But will 
you?” the doctor recommended. 

“Where?” 

“Oh! Atlantic City!” 

Bert gave no sign of being interested. 

“What do you say?” 

He hesitated a moment, and, reaching into his inner 
pocket, extracted a letter. He handed to to the phy¬ 
sician. 

“What do you think of this?” 

The doctor read it through without a word. 

“When did you receive this?” he asked. 

“This afternoon.” 

They exchanged glances. 

“You remember,” Bert continued, “she said in the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 147 

first note she would remain in seclusion until I had been 
elected.” 

The doctor remembered. 

“Looks as if she is going to see this through!” 

“But is it possible? I mean, can she get a divorce 
in less than a month?” 

“Yes; they do it.” 

“But . . . a month!” 

“I know.” 

Dr. Dahill shook his head ruefully. 

“I do not want her to suffer,” Bert murmured. “She 
does not deserve all the blame. She told me she was 
running away from her own self; this I believe to be 
the truth.” 

“Then you think him responsible-?” 

“Sh! Not a word concerning him! Please!” 

“But you forgive her ... ?” 

“What have I to forgive? She has injured herself 
—and Babs! She is welcome to return here at any 
time—to-night, to-morrow or next year. She is still 
my wife, understand; and no power on earth can take 
her from me. She is mine, mine until death. No court, 
not even the august tribunal of the Supreme Court of 
the United States of America, can dissolve a tie that 
God has validly joined together. She may live with 
this other man, but she is still my wife and the mother 
of my child.” 

The doctor pursed his lips, preserving the silence 
that the occasion warranted. He could not help admir¬ 
ing the fortitude of the man who sat before him, a 
strained and nerve-wrecked man that leaned back in the 



I 4 B the winter of discontent 

big, upholstered chair as if on the point of exhaustion. 
His black, curly hair was disarranged, his cheeks were 
wan, and his eyes wore a haggard look indicative of 
severe mental strain. He had far from surrendered 
to himself, however, for his mouth had closed firmly 
and his jaw was set. It was evident to the doctor that 
he would face this, firmly and courageously like a man. 

“It is the age in which we live,” the medical man 
began, in an effort to offer him a little distraction, “the 
age of utilitarianism. 7 'he men and women of to-day 
have not the moral strength of their ancestors. Our 
children are not so clean and innocent as thpse of an 
earlier generation. One editor, I noticed, goes so far 
as to declare that the so-called feministic movement is 
largely responsible for the alarming increase in suicide. 
This is due to the fact, I suppose, that human life to¬ 
day is put on a purely utilitarian basis. A human 
being is measured solely by his value as a producing 
agent.” 

“Yes,” Bert assented. “That is what the schoolmen 
say. Vocational training, instead of cultural and 
moral.” 

“I do not say that your wife is radical, but she does 
represent a type. I think it spoils a woman to educate 
her. She is deprived of much happiness that she would 
ordinarily enjoy.” 

“Carol Kennicott, for example.” 

“Exactly. Everything becomes a Gopher Prairie to 
her. Our young women are told that they are the com¬ 
ing mistresses of civilization; that men are back num¬ 
bers; that marriage is a relation of convenience; that the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 149 

world has been made a mess by the ignoramuses now 
in control. The harmony and the interdependability 
of sex-life is consequently ruptured.” 

“All women do not believe in this silly stuff.” 

“True! But the propaganda has done its work.” 

Bert Colman had not summoned his friend for the 
exclusive purpose of airing his views on present-day 
radicalism. There were far more important matters 
to be considered and more far-reaching decisions to 
be made. In the first place he was of a mind to ignore 
completely the pending action and permit his stubborn 
wife to obtain her decree by default; but the doctor 
sharply criticized this laissez faire policy and pointed 
out the necessity of taking certain steps to safeguard 
the custody of the child. 

“Let us suppose,” he said, “that you do refuse to 
heed this summons. What will be the result? She 
will obtain the decree by default and will be awarded 
the custody of the child.” 

This decided him as to the propriety of the first 
step. 

In the second place he was plainly worried about 
the education and care of Bab. She was already past 
five and going to school. He considered himself at his 
best a hopeless substitute for a mother. What should 
he do with her while he was away? Congress was 
sure to be convened in extraordinary session in the 
spring of the year. He could not break up his home 
and take the girl with him, for he was required to 
preserve a domicile, at least, in the district he repre¬ 
sented. There were no immediate relatives whom he 


150 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

might summon to his side to help him bring up his 
child. Relatives are often useless quantities, especially 
in times of misfortune. Of course, he might engage 
some woman, but he did not think kindly of leaving 
the exclusive management of his home and the care of 
his child in the hands of a stranger. 

“Break up and live with me; both of you,” sug¬ 
gested the doctor. 

Bert shook his head. 

“What do you know about this Academy?” he asked. 

“Montmercy ?” 

“Yes.” 

“An ideal place! The Sisters conduct it. The re¬ 
sults speak for themselves.” 

Bert was almost decided on the propriety of the 
second step. With the divorce out of the way he 
thought favorably of placing the child in the Academy 
under the immediate charge of the Sisters. It was not 
home, for no institution could replace the home, but 
under the circumstances, she would be as well off there 
as anywhere else. In the meantime he made up his 
mind to get into communication with some one to repre¬ 
sent him at the hearing, after which he bided his days 
pending the result of the trial. 

He had not long to wait. The first week in De¬ 
cember witnessed the settlement of the proceedings. 
Edith was granted her divorce on the grounds of cru¬ 
elty, and w r as permitted the use of her maiden name. 
The case was not contested except for the custody of 
the child. In this matter the attorney for the husband 
made a strong plea, with the result that the custody 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 151 

of the child was awarded to the father, with the under¬ 
standing that the mother could visit the child whenever 
she so desired. There was no stipulation concerning 
alimony. But the daily press of Shefford made great 
capital of the story. Robert Colman’s portrait held the 
front page; black headlines announced the story of 
the divorce. Everybody talked about the case. Bert 
hung his head in shame, and left the town and its 
gossipy inhabitants. 

He felt a little better when he found himself away. 
Atlantic City, like the river of Lethe, is the gateway 
to the fields of oblivion. Here he tried to lose himself 
in the excitement of the place. He stopped at an ex¬ 
clusive hotel. He visited the various houses of amuse¬ 
ment. He sat and listened to the music in the dining- 
halls, in the theaters, on the piers, until he had made 
himself familiar with the refrains of every popular air. 
He paced the boardwalk from end to end and interested 
himself in the enthusiastic throng. Overhead a biplane 
lumbered noisily through the air. He stood and 
watched it. A sand artist attracted him; and he con¬ 
sumed the better part of an hour watching him mold 
a heroic-sized bust of Marshal Foch. There were 
other splendid specimens of his work, wrought nearby 
in the perishable sand. He studied them, then let his 
gaze wander to the mighty ocean beyond. As he stood 
contemplating the restless, majestic, destructive motion 
of the sea, he thought how soon all the patient and 
laborious work of the artist would be reduced to mere 
nothingness. The short meditation held him, and he 
passed on. 


152 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

He wandered out to the end of the Steel Pier and 
sat down. A suitable spot for reminiscences where 
all was still save for the dashing and the splashing of 
the waves against the concrete supports! Beyond, the 
dark sea with its alternate markings of deep green and 
ultramarine blue heaved and tossed restlessly. It was 
never quiet, never peaceful. Just as Edith had been, 
restless, dissatisfied, uneasy! He wondered how long 
she would be satisfied in her new estate. She would 
find, now, everything for which she had ever craved 
—society, luxury, excitement. She ought to be as happy 
as her nature would permit. “As her nature would 
permit!” He repeated the words. She was fortunate 
in some respects, however, more so than the average 
divorcee. She was young and good-looking. She had 
nothing to worry about. The tragedy of their marriage 
was an experience which should afford her many les¬ 
sons. Would she measure up to those qualities re¬ 
quired, yes, demanded by the upper set? Did she know 
whither she was going? He was willing to wager that 
she would be labeled “a climber” before her first re¬ 
ception. 

It seemed to him that this terrible catastrophe could 
easily have been avoided. Neither had ever learned 
the sweet uses of adversity. Mutual forbearance, self- 
denial had been ignored. He had been narrow, incon¬ 
siderate, dull, prosaic. It was a severe arraignment of 
himself, but it was true and just. Yes, he had prided 
himself on owning her, when, as a matter of fact, he 
had but lent her his name. People have outgrown 
that idea of owning one another. It was part of the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 153 

false philosophy of the day—for how much of himself 
had he really surrendered? What a tragedy, this sud¬ 
den rupture of existence. He would not admit, even 
to himself, that it had had to happen. He could have 
prevented it, and he should have. 

Perhaps it w T as the standard of the times. People 
thought differently nowadays of the manners and qual¬ 
ity of the social order. That old-fashioned reverence 
for authority was fast disappearing before a bombastic 
and noisy democracy that shouted meaningless phrases 
from raucous throats about self-determination, consent 
of the governed, Bolshevism, and raised the meanest 
individual to a par with the most deserving. It was the 
war, he thought, that had leveled all things, opinions as 
well as everything else. The country had gone mad. 
Crime was on the increase, suicides and murders occu¬ 
pied the pages of the newspapers, divorce filled the 
dockets of the courts. Where would it end? Univer¬ 
sal chaos was written on the wall, but there was no 
Daniel come to issue the opportune warning. 

Would she have been so anxious to leave him had she 
not known that divorce was so easy a process? Sup¬ 
pose there had been a uniform law with only one or 
two grounds for obtaining decrees! The idea seized 
upon him with emphasis, all the more so on account 
of his experience. Here was he, a member-elect of 
Congress. Some one with the courage of his own con¬ 
victions was required to introduce a bill for the regu¬ 
lation of this national evil. Suppose he himself should 
volunteer to do it! There was nothing preposterous 
about the idea, when one considered that twenty odd 


154 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

years ago National Prohibition was a chimera. And 
yet more than two-thirds of the States were satisfied to 
surrender their rights to a Federal Amendment for the 
discontinuance of the manufacture and use of intoxi¬ 
cating beverages. Of course the liberties of the indi¬ 
vidual were restricted, but what was this when the gen¬ 
eral welfare of the country was secured? There was 
something of an analogy between National Prohibition 
and National Regulation of Divorce. The only differ¬ 
ence lay in this: the one affected the liberties of the 
poorer classes, the other the liberties of the richer. 
Well, it was now the turn of the rich, and he pledged 
himself to be the iconoclast of this, their precious 
institution. 

A little smile twisted his lips. It was not the smile 
of a vindictive man, but of a defeated one. He was 
despising himself for his own ardor, after what he had 
been through. The water swished against the pier, 
making mockery of his thoughts. The ocean rose and 
fell with great, angry grimaces, as if it secretly desired 
to lift up its huge maw and swallow him. That he 
should still be in love with this woman was inconceiv¬ 
able! She no longer cared for him; she never had 
cared for him! Before he returned home she would, 
undoubtedly, have become the wife of another. Imag¬ 
ine meeting her day after day! Could she act as if 
she had never been his wife? And what would Babs 
call this strange man? His smile disappeared; a subtle 
pain convulsed him, crawling up his throat to the cor¬ 
ners of his mouth. He hated himself. He hated the 
sight of the ocean. Getting up, he left the pier once 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


i55 

more to mingle with the great throng bustling along 
the boardwalk. 

He went home in three weeks. The blue walls, the 
stuffy atmosphere, the closed piano, haunted him. For 
the first time in his life he realized the crushing force 
of despondency. The house was tenantless; it was like 
a tomb. Forms of dead memories flitted past him—- 
but the air was still. Fie was alone—all alone. Flis 
life’s candle had gone out and left him groping in the 
darkness. 

He went straight to Dr. Dahill’s. Babs was there— 
Babs, his darling, his only consolation. The doctor 
greeted him joyfully and complimented him on his ex¬ 
cellent appearance. But he returned the handshake 
without a w T ord. When he did speak it was to ask 
about his wife. . 

“It has happened,” the surgeon announced. 

“What?” 

Instead of replying he procured a morning paper and 
handed it to him in silence. It read: 

“Mrs. Edith McClure (Colman) and Kelso Whea¬ 
ton, both of this city, were married in Stamford, last 
Saturday by Rev. Wallace Atkins, pastor of the Com 
gregational Church. Mr. Wheaton, who gave his oc¬ 
cupation as realtor, is thirty-two years old, and his 
bride is twenty-five. She was the wife of Congressman- 
elect Robert Colman, from whom she was recently 
divorced. ...” 

Bert read no more. 


XII 


I T was not until the week before Christmas that the 
Wheatons returned to West Shefford from their 
wedding trip. 

It had not been a honeymoon. A bridal trip, to be 
sure, but not a honeymoon. Both of them were agreed 
on that. In the first place the approaching holidays 
made an extended tour, such as they hoped for, out of 
the question, and, besides, they both were of a mind to 
spend this, their first Christmas, at Westlawn. In the 
second place, Kelso had promised to take his bride to 
Palm Beach and the season at that fashionable resort 
did not open until after New Year’s. For these reasons 
it was thought best to postpone the honeymoon and 
take a short trip down to the Virginia coast and return 
by way of Washington. Edith had never visited the 
National Capitol and she might as well go there as any¬ 
where else. In point of fact it mattered little where 
they went, for at this particular time every part of the 
world was tinged with romance. 

Sunday night they left New York on the Old Domin¬ 
ion Line under the most ideal weather conditions. Al¬ 
though December had set in, the weather was not cold, 
and the happy pair might have been observed in the 
sheen of pale moonlight, strolling arm in arm up and 
down the starboard deck until long after midnight. 

156 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


i57 


The following afternoon they stopped at Old Point 
Comfort long enough to visit the Fortress and the Sol¬ 
diers’ Barracks, after which they crossed the river to 
Norfolk and idled away two whole days in that old 
Southern town. Petersburg was next, then Richmond 
with its relics of the Confederacy, and finally Washing¬ 
ton. Joy, akin to the delights she had already experi¬ 
enced, awaited Edith here. She saw the President and 
Mrs. Wilson going for a ride in the park, and she stood 
in silent contemplation of the famous couple long after 
they had passed and were lost from sight around the 
corner of the road. She ascended the Washington 
Monument and gazed with wonder over the city and 
the surrounding country for miles and miles. She vis¬ 
ited Mount Vernon and peeked through the iron gates 
at the tomb of General Washington. She went through 
the Government Buildings, and the Capitol, where she 
sat for a short time in the galleries of the Senate and 
the House of Representatives. The Senate was not in 
session, but a member <^f the House was addressing his 
colleagues on the Income Tax Bill. She listened for a 
few minutes—until it suddenly dawned on her that this 
was the very room where Bert would be called upon to 
perform his services in the interests of the nation. The 
thought caused her a little shudder. She drew her furs 
closer about her, looked around the great hall, and 
asked to leave. 

When at last they came home to take possession of 
his domain, Kelso’s patrimony, a feeling of confidence 
possessed her. Never had she felt so equal to an oc¬ 
casion. She followed her husband into the great living- 


158 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

room with graceful pride, conscious of her dignity, yet 
becomingly modest of demeanor. A thousand thoughts, 
the realization of a thousand hopes and dreams, took 
substance in her mind. The great Airedale, Nestor, 
seemed to sense her proprietorship by jumping up to 
meet her and extending a welcome as cordial as that 
shown the master. For here she was, in truth, the 
established mistress of Westlawn. The great home, 
with its winding walks and spacious lawns setting back 
far from the main road, the cynosure of every passing 
traveler, was now hers! The family crest over the 
door-frames, in the walls of the den, on the china, on 
the mirrors, on the doors of the sedan—gules, three lions 
rampant in pale or—was hers! The automobiles were 
hers, the big sedan for shopping and touring, the “Little 
Six” roadster for sporting! She could not yet manage 
it herself, but Kelso had promised to teach her to drive 
in the spring. She had her own maid to attend her, 
dress her, and serve her with breakfast in bed on those 
murky mornings when she did not care to rise. She 
had her chauffeur to take her to tow T n and wait upon 
her pleasure. She had her private telephone in her 
own bedroom. And better than all she had Kelso. 
Verily, this was the era of romance! No other mortal 
could be better or more richly endowed. 

And she knew it. If her life had been clouded with 
sorrows and poignant regrets before, it w T as radiant 
with ecstasy now, not a mere semblance of contentment, 
but real, genuine bliss. For the moment she forgot all 
else save her own state of beatitude. Comfort! Con¬ 
tentment! Love! Kelso! There was no more to bq 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 159 

desired. There could be no more. It was her heart 
that had led her thither, almost against her better rea¬ 
son and she thanked devoutly the instinct that had 
prompted her to thrust aside the suggestions of a cold 
mind in favor of the warm feelings of a fervent soul. 
All her life she had longed to taste the effects of gush¬ 
ing emotion. The saints had written of this state of 
complete rapture that seemed to envelop their entire 
being, causing them to faint dead away from the effects 
of the great flood of enthusiasm that inundated their 
souls, and elevated them to realms of love where they 
communed with the Divine Will. Such transports of 
intense emotion were not possible to ordinary mortals, 
she had thought, and she never quite hoped to partici¬ 
pate in such animated enthusiasm at any time of her 
life. Only religiously inclined enjoy this favor, and 
she was not religious. But she did feel now that she 
was approaching, for the first time, something great 
and fine in the physical order, as if her blood was gush¬ 
ing in her veins in a great flooding rush. It was this 
ecstatic happiness, she decided, that had overwhelmed 
her and nearly swept her off her feet. 

“Wonderful, is it not,” she cried, “how happy they 
can be who really belong to each other! It does seem 
as if all this had been prepared for me from the begin¬ 
ning, but denied me by the interference of a cruel fate.” 

“It makes you happy—this?” Kelso said. 

“Yes—but not this alone. Everything has contrib¬ 
uted to it—you most of all. You have been just splen¬ 
did—splendid!” 

She put into action what she would say. Turning 



160 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


suddenly, she threw her arms about his neck and hung 
there. 

“And you don’t regret—not a little bit?” he asked, 
disengaging her arms and holding her from him. 

“Regret? A thousand times, no!” she answered, 
her hazel eyes fixed seriously upon him. 

“And you love me? You are sure?” he repeated, 
half smiling, half in earnest. 

“Why do you keep asking that of me?” she whis¬ 
pered. “Haven’t I told you—so often?” 

“Yes, I know,” he reassured her. “There! There! 
I shan’t ask you again.” 

“Aren’t you sure—yet?” 

“Of course—of course. Absolutely!” 

“But . . . But you look at me so strangely some¬ 
times—now, for instance. Are you sure of—your¬ 
self?” 

He folded her to him, gently patting her to indicate 
his complete assurance. 

Nestor looked up at them and let his jaw drop. 
Edith was sure he grinned. His shaggy face took on 
the silliest expression, and he wandered away aimlessly. 

“Nestor! Come!” she called, freeing herself. 
“Look—he says we are nonsensical.” 

The dog responded with a leap. She stooped to 
stroke his wiry hair. 

“I believe he is actually happy to have you, too!” 
Kelso observed. “You have won him from me. That 
breed is famous for being one-man dogs. What charm 
have you cast over him?” 

“Jealous!” she taunted, glancing up at him. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 161 


“Ha!” he laughed. “Not I. Whatever Is mine is 
yours.” 

“But mine!” 

“Belongs to me, now.” 

She smiled at him gently. 

He wandered to the mantle. The little gold clock 
clicked at five minutes before the hour, and he looked 
at it. It was almost four o’clock. Suddenly it occurred 
to him that his sisters were not around, but on second 
thought, this did not quite surprise him, for he had 
deliberately failed to inform them of his homecoming 
in order that Edith herself might be the one to break 
the joyful news to them. Of course they knew of the 
marriage. They had seen the announcement in the 
papers. But it had been too solemn to write about. 

The sun was just setting behind Pinnacle Mountain, 
his saffron beams touching the purple patches of the 
western landscape and painting them a dull gold. It 
was the last, great effort of the day, for twilight was 
fast approaching. Kelso stood for a moment looking 
through the French windows at the variety of color. 
Then he turned abruptly, struck with an idea, and 
touched the bell. 

“I wonder where they are!” he muttered. 

He did not expect Edith to know this, but he wished 
only to convey the purpose he had in mind in summon¬ 
ing the servant. His wife sat down quietly, and pres¬ 
ently a faint tap was heard at the door, which w T as 
quickly followed by a maid, attired in black with a 
white apron and cap. She entered and stood waiting, 
respectfully. 


i 6 i THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Yes, Mr. Kelso,” she said meekly. 

“Oh! Katinka! You! Well, well! How have 
you been behaving yourself since I went away? I want 
you to meet Mrs. Wheaton. Edith, this is Catherine 
Berg. Catherine is her name, but I always call her 
‘Katinka.’ It is much more musical than plain Kate. 
Names are misleading—what! She looks a deal pret¬ 
tier with the name ‘Katinka’—don’t you think?” 

Katinka blushed and looked at Edith, while Edith 
stared in astonishment both at her husband and at the 
girl. 

“Where are Miss Evelyn and Miss Doris?” Kelso 
continued. 

“Please, sir, I don’t know.’’ 

“Where did they go?’’ 

“Please, sir, I don‘t know.” 

“Did they leave any word?” 

“Please, sir, I don’t know.” 

“What is the matter with you? Talk natural! You 
need not be afraid of Mrs. Wheaton. Come! Come! 
Talk to me, not at me, like one scared clear out of her 
wits. The fact is—ahem—I want to surprise them. 
No one is supposed to know we have arrived. You 
see we have been married. You know that, don’t you? 
Do you think you will like my wife? You will be kind 
to her, won’t you?” 

Katinka did not know what to respond to this absurd 
banter. She was used to his way, and could exchange 
the merriest chaff with him on any occasion. But this 
was not the occasion. Flow could she dare to be loqua- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 163 

cious with this new mistress? She did not know her— 
Mrs. Wheaton. But she did know her place. 

“Yes, sir,” she finally said, submissively. 

“That is all,” Kelso said; and the maid turned to go. 

“Oh, by the way, Katinka,” Kelso called. “My 
mail!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

This time she did go. 

“Do you act in this fashion with all the servants?” 
Edith asked him, puzzled. 

“Certainly! Why not? They like it.” 

“What difference does it make whether they like it 
or not?” 

“Only that they w T ant to do more for you.” 

“But need you descend to—well, to the point of 
equality with them?” 

“Pshaw! They all understand me here. It is my 
way. They attach no more meaning to my chatter than 
you would.” 

There was no more to be said, for at this juncture 
the maid returned with the mail. She was brisk and 
circumspect in the performance of her duty, and went 
straight to the center table where she placed the pile 
of letters carefully. She turned as precisely as she had 
come in, and left the room. Not a word w r as spoken, 
Kelso not even thanking her. It was plain to every¬ 
body, even the dog, Nestor, standing there and sniffing 
the air, that the situation was strained. 

No sooner, however, had the door closed upon her 
than the suppressed feelings of the girl expressed them¬ 
selves in a fury of resentment. From that moment she 


164 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


hated the woman who had been brought into this house. 
If she called her “cat” she could not help it—she looked 
like a cat in her sleek coat, she said. 

“The airs of her!” she went straight to the kitchen 
and confided to the cook. “Have you seen her? The 
missus, I mean. She sat there like Queen Victoria, as 
if she had been accustomed to being waited on all her 
life, when everybody knows she came from down near 
the Flats. Her old mother is still alive, but do you 
think she goes to see her! They say she left her hus¬ 
band and went West with Mr. Wheaton to get her di¬ 
vorce. The likes of her and the style of her to-day! 
Have nothing to do with her. She’s a villain.” 

“What does she look like?” 

“One of those pretty things. She makes me sick with 
her powdered nose. Mr. Colman was too good for 
her, but he was not high-toned enough. She was dying 
to get hold of Mr. Wheaton. Don’t you remember 
the day they went horse-back riding? And she fell off! 
Pooh!” 

“Was that the one?” 

“Sure it was! You know Bert Colman—Robert 
Colman, the Congressman?” 

“You don’t tell me?” 

“That’s her husband. A fine man, and they had the 
loveliest child. They tell me he has put the little girl 
in the Academy with the Sisters, and broken up his 
home. Poor man! It must be heartbreaking to lose 
everything that way. All on account of a wife like that. 
Nellie, whatever else you do after you are married, 
don’t go running around with other men.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 165 

“So that's what it was,” Nellie exclaimed. “Col- 
man’s wife! Ain't she a Catholic? The bold thing!” 

For Nellie Reynolds a “bold thing” was the very 
epitome of infamy. Only the most degraded deserved 
that epithet. She would never apply it to any one who 
did not deserve it, but from Katie Berg’s description 
of Mrs. Wheaton, she decided that she richly deserved 
it. What w r as more, she began to entertain visions of 
a precarious existence. It was the way with upstarts, 
those who are not accustomed to fine things. With the 
Wheatons there had always been perfect freedom in 
the house. They were splendid people to work for. 
No one felt restrained in their service and while every¬ 
body kept his place, still he was not made to feel his 
inequality. Of course there was the work which must 
be done, but there were no arbitrary or whimsical rules 
such as obtain in some houses. 

“You know how good the boss has been to us. Well, 
that’s ended! Take it from me, we'll walk the straight 
and narrow path. I could see the minute she looked 
at us that he was in for a call-down. That’s the last 
of him making much of us. I’ll bet we get a set of 
orders to-morrow forbidding us to speak until we are 
spoken to. And it will be Catherine this; and Cath¬ 
erine that. Some one of us will have to carry her 
breakfast to her bedroom. Her sort never gets up in 
the morning.” 

“Well, all I want to say is this! If she starts any 
funny business, I, for one, throws up the job,” Nellie 
’declared arrogantly. 

“I tell you what ails her. She’s a fish out of water. 


166 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


She does not belong here, and she’ll never know how to 
conduct herself. Those are usually the sort that try 
to lord it over everybody else. Well—the sooner she 
starts-” 

A ring at the front door put an end to the threat. 
Katinka bounded to her feet, straightened her apron 
and cap and started for the door. 

“The young ladies, I suppose,” she said, as she hur¬ 
ried into the hallway. 

Her surmise proved to be correct. Kelso rose the 
instant he heard his sisters’ voices and stood with his 
back to the table. Of all moments this was going to be 
the most critical, and he awaited the approaching en¬ 
counter of his wife with the members of his family 
with the anxiety of a condemned man. As a matter of 
fact he had never taken his sisters into his confidence 
in respect to asking this woman, their former friend 
and bosom companion, to share their house with them, 
and it had caused him no little concern to conjecture 
what attitude they would assume upon meeting her. 
Would they receive her cordially? Everything, it 
seemed, depended upon that. Evelyn, he was aware, 
was opposed to divorce. But would she be willing to 
make an exception in the case of her own brother and 
her chum? If he detected the least displeasure on her 
part—and he took this position in the center of the 
room where he might witness the meeting—he would 
have to acknowledge defeat. Edith, too, was awaiting 
the meeting with an anxious air. He saw it in her face 
as she left her chair and hurried to the door. 

But as they flew into one another’s arms he watched 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 167 

the fervor of the embrace. It satisfied him. The meet¬ 
ing was all that he had hoped for, and a slight grunt of 
satisfaction escaped him. It was not because these 
people were his victims that Kelso’s lips curled in that 
perceptible sneer. That was a way with him. He re¬ 
joiced simply because his own vain misgivings were 
wholly without foundation, at most fanciful, suspicious 
and foolish. The greeting of the women, instead of 
being, as he had feared, feigned and frigid, was genu¬ 
ine and spontaneous. The light of welcome that 
beamed from his sisters’ eyes was soulful and genuine. 
He was confident that their capitulation was complete. 
He kqew enough about women to assure himself that 
they were going to be a cordial trio, Evelyn, Doris and 
Edith; and the thought encouraged him. 

“What do you think of this modern version of 
Pyramus and Thisbe?’’ Kelso asked characteristically. 
“We tore down the wall.” 

“Just splendid!” Evelyn exclaimed with eyes aglow. 
“I know we shall be very happy—just us four.” 

“Thanks!” he replied. 

“Why, you big, foolish boy! Did you think we 
would stand in the way of your happiness?” 

“No, really! The fact is—well! We were not 
sure.” 

He wandered away, his eyes gleaming a little, his 
fingers thrust into his side pockets, the dog, Nestor, at 
his heels. It was over—thank God! The girls were 
pleased and that meant everybody was pleased. But it 
had been a strain while it lasted and he passed his hand 
over his forehead in profound relief. Of course it mat- 


168 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


tered considerably what his sisters thought. He would 
not for the world have caused them any pain over his 
hasty venture, and he had hoped—he never prayed, 
for he trusted too much to pot-luck—that they would 
condone his offense against society on the ground that 
he was their own brother. “It was surprising,” he 
muttered, and then strangely enough, he asked himself 
in the same breath, “What would people say?” as if the 
answer gave him any real concern. It was a way with 
the Wheatons never to consider the opinions of any 
outside the members of their own family. It was a 
tradition with them and they simply could not outlive it. 
For him to ask, even to himself, what the rest of the 
world thought, made him chuckle again. It would 
make any Wheaton chuckle. 

His mail contained a letter announcing the coming 
reception to the newly-elected Governor. There on 
the table it lay and he picked it up and scanned the mes¬ 
sage. Suddenly he thought that this was Edith’s chance 
to make her bow to society. He was a member of the 
Governor’s Foot Guards, an ancient and honorable or¬ 
ganization, the bodyguard of the Governor of the 
State. It was customary to hold a public reception on 
Inauguration Day, which reception was generally 
looked upon as the social event of the season. Every¬ 
body was there. The citizens of the State came to 
salute their new Governor, and to receive his salute in 
return. Prospective office-holders came to show them¬ 
selves, and to pay homage to their chief. The rank 
and file came to meet everybody else and to see all 
there was to be seen. He grunted. What a splendid 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 169 

opportunity to present his wife to their friends! He 
would escort her himself, introduce her to his own 
circle and sit back the while and watch the manner of 
her reception. He could see them now. Mrs. Billings 
taking Edith by the arm and parading her around the 
hall, halting before the several boxes to introduce the 
wife of Kelso Wheaton to the envious guests. Ted 
Newell asking for the pleasure of a dance; Charlie 
French coming to him to congratulate him on his ex¬ 
cellent fortune. A rather formal round of ceremonies, 
to be sure, but he was accustomed to formal ceremonies. 
His whole life had been regulated, to a certain extent, 
by them. Arching his brows he looked around at the 
trio now engaged in earnest conversation. Then he 
sauntered up to them. 

“I say,” he interrupted, “here is something.” 

“An announcement!” Doris guessed. 

“The Governor’s Ball. New Year’s Night. Last 
time we were there was before the war, don’t you 
remember?” 

The girls remembered. 

“Now is the time for you to meet the crowd, Edith. 
Suppose we decide to go, you and I. What do you 
think?” 

Evelyn thought it would be the proper thing. As 
for Doris she had no desire to attend. She was tired 
of meeting the same people. 

“It will be your chance, Edith,” went on Kelso, “to 
meet the ‘crits.’ Do you know the ‘crits’? No? 
Everybody knows them. They manage the conduct 
of. the city, pry into men’s affairs, upset innocent 


i7o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

women’s homes. They never mean any harm—Oh, 
no!—but they never seem to be out of mischief. They 
haunt the recesses of brilliantly lighted ballrooms. 
Super-elongated jawbones are characteristic of them, 
as well as jack-in-the-box gaits. They travel, usually, 
in pairs, and never look ahead to see where they are 
going. They visit jails, hospitals, sanitariums, institu¬ 
tions for the blind, the deaf and so on. They assemble 
at lectures, receptions, soirees. And no one is spared 
their pointed shafts; and when they shoot, they shoot to 

kill.” 

No one deigned to make reply to this banter. The 
sisters looked at each other and tittered. It was ridicu¬ 
lous, this spectacle of Kelso Wheaton reciting a mono¬ 
logue on ‘‘town gossip,” and accompanying his per¬ 
formance with appropriate gestures and facial expres¬ 
sions. When he finished he appeared even more ludi¬ 
crous, as he stood, right foot forward, with hand and 
finger extended as if in aim. 

“Don’t be silly!” Doris exclaimed. 

“Ha! You make light of my remarks. Well, you 
shall see. Look, here is the announcement! Recep¬ 
tion to His Excellency, the Governor, Foot Guard Hall. 
New Year’s Night. Yours truly, ‘The Crits.’ ” 

There was a pause, followed by more tittering. 

“Eh bien! We go to meet them. Edith, buy the 
smartest dress in town. And then we’ll go to knock 
them cold. What!” 


XIII 


4 IT ^EVER saw Edith look lovelier,” Evelyn whis¬ 
pered to her brother as they stood together for 
a few moments in conversation near the end of 

the hall. 

“Best-looking woman in the crowd!” Kelso grunted 
with obvious delight. 

“She will make a good impression, don’t you think?” 

“Of course!” 

Together their eyes sought Edith. In her gown of 
gold net over peach satin with its opalescent trimmings, 
she seemed to have caught the form of some fairy 
princess brought to earth for this ball. She was stand¬ 
ing a few feet away laughing and chatting with two of 
Kelso’s friends, Ted Newell and his fiancee, Miss 
Rogers. 

“But I am going to enjoy it, I know,” they heard her 
protest. “It is just splendid.” 

“The coloring is wonderful,” Miss Rogers observed. 

“And the gowns!” exclaimed Edith. 

It would be difficult to say, indeed, which w T as the 
more resplendent, the hall with its kaleidoscopic effect 
of color formations, representing every hue and shade 
of the gleaming rainbow, or the gowns, worn by the 
women, which for brilliance and beauty transcended 
anything seen heretofore in the city. The matrons for 


172 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

the most part wore sequins that scintillated like a clus¬ 
tered nebulae in the heavens, as well as jets, while the 
younger women were noticeable for their dazzling 
shades of rich velvets, gowns of gold or silver, and 
brilliant creations of zephyr lightness. 

It was yet early evening. His Excellency had not 
arrived and the guests were slowly filing into the hall 
and taking their places in the galleries and around the 
sides to await his entry. Kelso had been marching all 
day and was tired to death. He had escorted the 
Governor in parade through the streets of the city up 
to the Capitol for the inauguration ceremony and he 
had marched w r ith the Guards to the hall for the per¬ 
formance of the last solemn service. He felt silly in 
his uniform and was glad this business of inaugurating 
Governors occurred only once every two years. For 
the moment he had stolen away from the ranks to catch 
a glimpse of his wife. He had not seen her since early 
morning and was anxious to know how she looked in 
her new gown. 

Presently a party came through the door with some 
commotion and much chatter and Edith turned her 
head to see who they were. As she did so she caught 
sight of her husband in his buff and blue uniform stand¬ 
ing with his sister. She excused herself and hurried to 
his side. 

“Hello!” she greeted him. “Are you very tired?” 

“Not very,” he answered. “How are you?” 

“Splendid!” 

“Are you enjoying it?” 

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful!” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 173 

“Has everybody been nice to you?” 

“Yes, indeed!” she exclaimed. “But I don’t know 
very many. We just came.” 

“Oh, that’s all right. You will before the night is 
over.” 

“Edith, have you met my friend, Mr. Towne?” 

“I am pleased,” Edith replied sweetly. 

“And Mr. Perry!” 

This must be Doris’ friend, for the two had just 
joined the party. Again she acknowledged the intro¬ 
duction. 

“We were just saying,” Mr. Towne volunteered, 
“that the effects of the hard times are hardly apparent 
here. Have you ever seen anything more brilliant?” 

No one ever had, so he continued: 

“Don’t you think it a mighty good thing to hold these 
affairs? We would grow so narrow without them. 
There are people here to-night I have never met be¬ 
fore. It gives us an idea of their way of doing things 
and we are learning all the time-” 

“Ye-ah,” said Kelso, “you’re right, either way.” 

Edith laughed merrily. 

“I’ll bet the ‘Guv’ will learn something when he 
takes a look at this mob,” said Perry. 

“Well, I wish my part in it was over,” Kelso ex¬ 
claimed. He was interrupted by the call to attention. 
His Excellency had arrived and was ready for the 
grand entry. 

Edith drew back with the others to make space for 
the triumphal procession. There was no delay, for 
presently, to the strains of a stirring martial air, the 



174 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

Foot Guards marched into the hall in their gayly- 
colored uniforms, and by a clever and precise movement 
ranged one platoon at the head and the other at the 
opposite end of the room. Then came the Governor, 
smiling, emotional, somewhat nervous, surrounded by 
his stall. It was the signal for cheers and applause. 
“Present arms!” rang out high above the uproar and 
every rifle came to salute. Simultaneously with the 
command came a flood of electric lights, and above all 
else, prominent and brilliant, a large American flag 
flashed forth, the Stars and Stripes outlined in colors. 
The effect was striking. The band broke into the na¬ 
tional anthem, and the Governor and his staff stood 
at attention until the last prolonged note had died away. 
Then he advanced quickly to a reserved place, fashioned 
like a bower, with flowers and potted palms in abun¬ 
dance. Here he played host to the vast assemblage. 

To Edith all this was inspiring—the sight of the 
dress uniforms, the military appearance of the men, 
the martial music, Lieutenant Wheaton (her Kelso), 
the Governor and his staff, the salute to the colors. Her 
heart danced with enthusiasm and she was so overcome 
with emotion that she was thrilled almost to tears. 
And now His Excellency was about to receive the com¬ 
pany, another inspiring spectacle. 

The members of the staff came first, each saluting 
his commander-in-chief and then clasping his hand in 
a firm, hearty grasp. Then followed the Justices of 
the Courts, the women in the Governor’s box, his 
mother, wife and children, the committees and finally 
the guests. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 175 

Evelyn whispered to Edith that she had better re¬ 
main with them until Kelso arrived. Edith thanked 
her, but never took her eyes away from the line that 
was forming and moving slowly down one side of the 
hall in orderly fashion and dispersing at the other in 
increasingly disorderly confusion. She fell in line with 
the others and moved along with the slow procession. 
It seemed to her as she neared the front that Elis Ex¬ 
cellency was tiring of the ordeal. She took his out¬ 
stretched hand, whispered a word or two of congratula¬ 
tion, and passed on, with Evelyn and Mr. Towne, to 
the left of the hall. 

The ceremony concluded, the Governor left his sta¬ 
tion and hurried to his box. Then followed the signal 
to break ranks. This was welcomed by Edith and she 
smiled a little smile of joyful relief as Kelso approached 
her. They were preparing for the grand march and 
he took her away to find a place in the line. 

When all was in readiness the leader of the band 
raised his baton, the players broke into the Governor’s 
March, the head of the column began to move and the 
march was on. Around and around the hall they went, 
a line of beautiful women arrayed in dazzling gowns 
and jewels, olive drab uniforms, red and blue uniforms, 
black and white costumes of men in evening attire. 
Edith felt that many eyes were focused upon her. 
There were very few she knew in the line of march 
and this consoled her. But the more she advanced and 
the more people came into her line of vision the more 
she realized that there were a great many of her old 
acquaintances in the assembly, and that none of them 


176 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


had spoken to her during the evening. The whole city 
was here to-night, Kelso’s kind and her own combined. 

Presently the music stopped, the march halted, the 
dance was on. Each escort took his own partner for 
the first waltz, and Edith swung into the arms of Kelso, 
the first waltz they had had together since their night 
in Roger McKim’s pavilion at Spring Lake. 

It did not take Edith long to discover that she was 
in a strangely unwholesome and chilling atmosphere. 
New England traditions savor of social ostracism. The 
stern and black-browed inhabitants of ancient Salem 
were no less conspicuous in their martyrdom of the 
witches or severe in their denunciation of the public 
sinner, than were these people of modern Shefford in 
their cruelties towards the unfaithful husband or wife. 
It is all right to say that a great amount of water had 
flowed under the bridges since that time and times had 
changed considerably, but the fact remains that New 
England tradition to-day is just as jealous of the strict 
observance of the moral code and adherence to duty 
as it was two hundred years ago. The adulteress is 
condemned now by public opinion as she was condemned 
then by a stern, inquisitorial law to stand in the public 
pillory. She is religiously avoided by her nearest of 
kin. There is no extenuation that can serve to lessen 
her guilt, and the townsfolk stand by as they did then 
and suffer her to pay the whole of her fine, Edith was 
aware of this, and she sensed this feeling of repugnance 
to her in the coolness and contempt manifested in the 
behavior of the people who surrounded her in the great 
hall. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


177 


“Are you enjoying the evening?” Kelso asked her a 
little later. 

“Not any too much,” came back the rather listless 
reply. 

“What is it? The ceremony or the company?” 

“Both, I think.” 

“What do you care? Just walk up to these people 
and let them see you. That’s what counts.” 

“I couldn’t do that,” she said. 

“Of course you can. You’ve got to if you want to 
make any headway with them. It’s their method.” 

It was not that anybody by look, word, or sign 
manifested the slightest indication of dissatisfaction 
or displeasure. But they knew well how to conceal 
their emotions and impulses under the guise of polite¬ 
ness. Edith felt terribly conscious. She felt that the 
women were staring and whispering horrid things be¬ 
hind their fans and dance programs about her and the 
sin she had committed against society. Was it because 
she was young and fashionable that they could not take 
their eyes from her, or was she really a notorious per¬ 
son bearing the heavy consequences of an infamous dis¬ 
grace? Why could they not admire instead of con¬ 
demning the sincerity of her convictions? She had been 
unhappy with her former husband, she was not ashamed 
to confess it, and she had left him for that very reason. 
Must she be subjected to scorn and persecution for 
doing what the majority of them yearned to do but 
dared not. Hypocrites! There was more than one of 
them who knew that their own husbands were scan¬ 
dalously familiar with other women, but who covered 


178 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

it up as well as they could so as to avoid giving the 
public something to talk about! On the other hand 
they did not want her because she was a divorcee. 
Which was worse? 

“Do you know,” she confided to Kelso, “I think they 
are very cold to me. Do you notice it?” 

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. 

“But no one seems to be kind—” she protested. 

“They never are. That’s their way.” 

“There’s May Welch, a girl I’ve known all my life. 
She has not come near me all evening. And we used 
to be such good friends.” 

“Perhaps she has not had a chance. The night is 
young yet. How many engagements have you?” 

“You have my program? How many dances have 
you taken?” 

“Oh, I can fill it easily enough. But I thought you 
might want to reserve some.” 

“I don’t know whether I do or not.” 

The dance over, they made their way to the side of 
the hall where stood the Governor’s box. Edith 
judged this to be the most prominent portion of the 
hall, and she was determined to let every one see how 
unmindful she was of criticism. Never would she allow 
herself to be isolated, not even by the self-appointed 
arbiters of fashion and society who composed the domi¬ 
nant minority at the head of the hall. Kelso took care 
to present her to everybody they encountered, and all 
received her with cordial delight. Apparently they 
were entirely sincere in their protestations of pleasure 
—still, Edith did not trust them. She never could bq 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 179 

sure of what others were thinking. Actions were poor 
indexes of a person’s thoughts, especially in the case of 
these social leaders. 

Presently the music started again and Mr. Newell 
came to her side to claim his dance. The selection was 
especially cheerful. Round and round they stepped, 
moving in the midst of other couples, coursing merrily 
to the lively accompaniment. How they moved, and 
laughed, and frisked and chatted! She was happy. 
Beautiful girls of the best families swayed sportively 
about her, and my lady Evelyn also, to the evident de¬ 
light of her escort. Edith scanned the hall for Kelso 
and found him at the opposite end with a frail and viva¬ 
cious girl for a partner. 

“What are all these traditions of which I hear so 
much?” she ventured to inquire of Mr. Newell. He 
was supposed to know all about these things, for she 
had heard it said that he was an authority on “form.” 

“Traditions!” he repeated. “What do you mean—• 
traditions?” 

“Oh, those customs and formulae transmitted from 
one generation to the other and supposed to govern the 
behavior of our people and give them a sense of self- 
confidence.” 

“Never heard of them,” he replied. “What do 
they look like?” 

“That’s it. They can’t be seen. Have you ever felt 
them?” 

“Never! If they do exist I should describe them 
more of the spirit than the flesh.” 

“But it angers me to think that such things do exist, 


i8o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


and that so many are compelled to subscribe to 
them-” 

“It is but natural. Class divisions are indestructible. 
There is always a certain class at the top of every form 
of society, and even if one set succeeds in dislodging the 
class above, they in turn automatically become the top¬ 
most class. Should every class be destroyed until two 
men only are left, one of these would be the leader of 
the other.” 

But it was later in the evening, while she was sitting 
out one of her dances with Kelso, that her ears caught 
an unfinished sentence that resolved all her doubts and 
conjectures of the evening into grim and startling reali¬ 
ties. Two women approached the side of the hall and 
passed immediately behind her. They were talking 
earnestly, but it was only part of a sentence that suc¬ 
ceeded in reaching her anxious ears. 

“ . . . and they say her child is in the asylum . . . ” 

That was all, but it made the room grow still and 
cold. She decided that the whole hall must be talking 
about her. It was her child they meant, and she felt 
the color leave her face and a chill run down her spine. 

Some time later Evelyn found her in the rest-room, 
whither she had retired. She had been crying, and 
was sitting in one corner quite alone. It was terrible, 
this ordeal, and she could not endure it. She could 
not pass any couple on the floor without feeling 
ashamed, for she was not bold enough to look them 
straight in the face without flinching. So she had fled 
away, from the sight of the gayly decorated hall and 
its cruel mockery, from herself, to this place of refuge 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 181 


where she might hide herself in solitude. She remem¬ 
bered with shame her foolish thoughts—even during 
the grand march when she was deluding herself that 
they were envying her and admiring her pretty gown. 
Fool that she had been not to know that they were only 
eyeing her to whisper secrets about her! 

“What is it, dear,” Evelyn asked, running to her 
side and placing her arms about her, “are you ill?” 

“It is nothing,” Edith replied, suppressing a sob and 
assuming a brave front. “I just came in to rest.” 

“Does Kelso know you are here?” 

She shook her head. 

“Had I better call him?” 

“No! No! Please don’t.” 

“It is stuffy—that hall. It made your head ache.” 

Edith looked up at her and tried to smile. 

“Let us go outside. Are you engaged for the next 
dance? Let me see! Yes, you are—with Fred. Come 
along.” 

Evelyn put her arm through hers and led her out, 
laughing and jesting merrily all the time, stopping sev¬ 
eral whom they met and speaking to them. Mr. Towne 
saw them and advanced, looking straight at Edith as 
if he would say, “Where have you been?” She put 
out her hand and welcomed him. 

“Do you know I have been looking for you all over 
this blooming hall?” he said. 

“I did not forget you,” she replied. 

During their dance together she scarcely spoke a 
word; and when he took her to the refreshment room 
she was but little more communicative. As they 


182 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


passed the gallery stairs some one called out to them 
as they passed. 

“Oh, hello, Tom,” Mr. Towne exclaimed. “I didn’t 
see you. How are you? Do you know-” 

“Sure I do. Mrs. Colman,” the other interrupted. 
“You remember me—I -was at the Armory?” 

“Yes, indeed,” Edith averred. “How do you do, 
Mr. Wallace?” 

“But she is Mrs. Colman no longer,” Mr. Towne 
[explained. “Mrs. Wheaton, if you please. Kelso’s 
wife.” 

“Oh, I see,” returned the other. “Well, indeed I 
am glad to know Mrs. Wheaton. My mistake I am 
sure.” 

They passed on. 

When the intermission came Edith sought Kelso and 
asked to be taken home. He protested with his usual 
grunt, and told her it was altogether impossible because 
of the number of engagements he had made for the 
evening. She must wait, he decided, and while he was 
sorry she was not enjoying herself, he had little doubt 
but what she would do better as the night grew older. 
It would never do, he reminded her, for him to leave 
at this juncture. There was a certain formality to be 
observed and his presence was required. 

“But, Kelso, I am ill. I know I can stand it no longer. 
You must take me home.” 

“Let us find Evelyn or Doris,” he suggested, think¬ 
ing he saw a way out of the difficulty. 

“No, I want to get away.” 

“What’s the matter?” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 183 

‘'They hate me. I hate them. I can tell when I am 
not wanted.” 

He was aroused this time, and forced an affected 
laugh. He did not grunt, for it suddenly occurred to 
him as he sat there and studied her that her color was 
changing, or that it had changed in the course of the. 
evening. It would never do to have her grow ill on 
his hands, he concluded, in a public hall like this, and 
so he made up his mind to do as she had suggested. 
Pulling out his program he looked at it carefully. 
Most of the names were those of friends. He would not 
be forced to make humble apologies and he resolved to 
seek them all immediately and explain the cause of his 
departure. 

“Come,” he said. “Let us find Evelyn. I shall be 
ready to leave with you in a few minutes.” 

And he busied himself in hurrying through the hall 
and offering explanations for the forced departure he 
was obliged to make on account of the sudden indisposi¬ 
tion of his wife. 

There was little said during the ride home, for he 
was manifestly displeased with the abrupt termination 
of the evening’s pleasure and the Wheaton blood rose 
in rebellion against those who had deliberately or other¬ 
wise taken a hand in Edith’s undoing. Did they really 
mean it or was it wholly imaginary? He had never 
suspected Edith to be subject to hallucinations—still 
one never knew to what extremes the subconscious mind 
might go. That there had been cynical comments 
passed upon his marriage alliance, he knew very well. 
Had not Betty Russell, in a spirit of banter indeed, 


i8 4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

asked him what amount of consolation he supposed his 
many admirers would derive concerning the value of 
their own charms when the prize of the year had been 
snatched from under their eyes by a divorcee! Of course 
she was familiar enough with him to be privileged to 
make such a remark, but it was presumptuous. A 
pretty state of affairs when the private concerns of his 
own house were on the lips of the public! He did not 
recall the exact words of his reply, but they were to 
the effect that he was not in the habit of consulting the 
rest of the world in respect to his own personal duties 
and predilections, and it was sufficient for him to deem 
the admirable lady who now bore his name to be worthy 
of her station. He lived to satisfy himself, not people; 
and it mattered little to him what they thought or said, 
provided he was gratified. He caught his mustache be¬ 
tween his lips with characteristic determination, as a 
man clenches his fists, with his back against a wall, 
while he prepares to whip into insubordination the 
crowd of unruly insurgents confronting him. 

If Edith, he thought, only possessed some of the 
Wheaton characteristics in fact as well as in name she 
would have treated the garrulous multitude w T ith the 
scorn it so richly deserved. But, unfortunately, she 
could not; it was not in her nature to do so. She took 
too seriously all that other people thought and said 
about her, as if it mattered! She liked to be on friendly 
terms, and was not independent enough to fight for her 
convictions! When she set out for this solemn func¬ 
tion to-night she had been eager enough, gay and happy, 
but now she was returning crestfallen. It was too late 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 185 

for her to retrace her steps and she might just as well 
make the best of it. If he only could make her see 
his point of view! She w T as mistress of Westlawn for 
life, and she could well afford to snub whomsoever she 
chose. 

“Why do you mind this?” he tried to console her. 
“You have nothing to lose. They are powerless against 
you and they know it.” 

“I hate them,” she cried. “I wish I had never seen 
them.” 

“You will have to cast off your old life and become 
like everybody else-” 

“I don’t want to be like everybody else,” she flared 
back. 

“Well, never mind,” he said resignedly, “we’ll go 
away and leave them. When you are at Palm Beach 
they will give you no further thought.” 

“I wonder . . . !” she murmured and her rouged 
cheek grew even redder. She pretended to agree with 
him, but there were monstrous truths she could not put 
aside, even though she simulated resignation. 



XIV 


P ALM BEACH was gorgeous; at least Edith 
thought so. She had heard so many entrancing 
tales of this most fashionable of resorts, this 
Floridean playground, where youth and beauty met, 
that to be present in the shadow of its groves and bow¬ 
lers seemed happiness enough. The ingenuity of man, 
it seemed, had been taxed to the utmost to make this an 
ideal winter garden. The wealth of a great railroad 
system had been prodigally expended to surround with 
all comforts the vast number of guests who were at¬ 
tracted thither every year. Luxurious appointments 
distinguished the hotels, and transformed their enclosed 
areas into modern hanging gardens of Babylon. The 
surging waters of the mighty Atlantic rolled against 
one side and ground down the white pebbles into the 
finest sand, affording a bathing beach which for natural 
and artificial splendor transcended every other bathing 
beach along the eastern seaboard. The placid waters 
of Lake Worth lapped against the western shore and 
created a panorama of serene and refreshing beauty. 
The splendors of earth and sky seemed to converge 
here to make a paradise. Tall and stately cocoa-palms 
towered aloft, nodding slumberously in the gentle 
breezes, and fair flowers lifted glad faces to the morn¬ 
ing sun and filled the mild air with languorous perfume. 

186 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 187 

There were hosts of artificial unrealities here, but 
none of them made an unfavorable impression on Edith 
at first. What interested her particularly was not the 
hotels, or the palm avenues, or the variegated flower 
gardens, or the quaint shops and showplaces, so much 
as the people. She had always found people absorbing, 
and she was fond of studying them and their ways. 
The men and women appealed to her because they were 
assembled from the most exclusive homes of the coun¬ 
try, distinguished for their wealth and culture and 
typical of the best traditions of American aristocracy. 
They had made this place an island inviolate. No one, 
it seemed, ever got too much acquainted. And while 
the manner of all was not without ostentation and 
superciliousness, their aristocracy was of the kind that 
would associate with cliques and castes only, and never 
with the children of the people. The only claim to 
good manners some possessed was a plentiful fortune. 
There was no meeting-ground here between lord and 
serf. She saw a haughty damsel at one of the dances 
at the Ponciana leave her settee in contempt because an 
ordinary girl came to share it with her. And this, 
thought Edith, was the great American nobility, simu¬ 
lating a title without warrant, the product of an indus¬ 
trial nation, elevated and inspired by European contact 
and custom, but as thoroughly artificial and as stilted 
as the fairy playground it had helped create. 

She quickly learned that Palm Beach was not so sol¬ 
idly gorgeous as she had imagined it to be. It was in¬ 
teresting, true—but that was all. The hotels were vast 
wooden structures, spacious and richly appointed, but, 


188 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


contrasted with modern New York hotels, veritable 
firetraps. The hotels were Palm Beach, and Palm 
Beach was the hotels. There were no drives, or walks, 
or seaboards. Automobiles were prohibited from 
using the island and one had to ride around in a wheel 
chair. The bathing beach was small, adjoining an old, 
wooden pier. And everybody went bathing at eleven 
o’clock. If one wanted to bathe in the early morning 
or in the middle of the afternoon he would not think 
of taking a dip in the ocean. No one else thought of it 
—hence no one did it. Want of individuality—but 
ultra-fashionable—of course! It had been decreed that 
eleven o’clock was the bathing hour and everybody was 
expected to conform to that rule. 

One afternoon she went with Kelso for a ride in 
a wheel-chair. Everybody went for a ride in the middle 
of the afternoon and wound up at the Cocoanut Grove 
at five o’clock for dancing and refreshments. The 
ride around the island, including the trip through the 
jungle—so called because of its naturally wild and un¬ 
kempt appearance—took more than an hour. The re¬ 
turn trip was made along the ocean front, past the 
bathing beach, and through the hotel grounds. Of 
course the fare was exorbitant, but everything at Palm 
Beach was expensive. That, it seemed, was the hall¬ 
mark of distinction, just as a university education was 
once considered the hall-mark of a gentleman. 

“I think I like it, with all its faults,” she confessed 
to Kelso. “The people are shallow, I’ll admit, and 
brazenly affected. Still they know how to mind their 
own business.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 189 

“These folks never ask how the rest of the world 
lives. They don’t have to.” 

“Environment counts, doesn’t it? Look at Shefford! 
It’s only a small town with grown-up buildings.” 

“The point, precisely!” replied Kelso. “Shefford is 
neither rational nor irrational, rigorous nor over-indul¬ 
gent. Heat and cold are, after all, but relative quali¬ 
ties. You breathe on your hands to warm them and 
blow on your tea to cool it. That’s the ridiculous side 
of making private judgment a form of action. Social 
prestige is only a huge hypocrisy, and all social distinc¬ 
tions are built on pretense and artificiality. In Shefford, 
for instance, people look upon divorce as an outrage, 
while down here it is most acceptable. The former is 
not used to it, that is all. Environment is the thing. 
One can be exalted in one place and damned in the 
next.” 

“It’s a funny old world. And we have to suffer for 
its peculiarities.” 

“It isn’t the world. If the world is part comedy and 
part tragedy it is due to the actors. There are good 
actors and bad actors, heroes and villains. The world’s 
heroes are the tragedians. We are the jesters, bound 
by no text or form. That is why we jest. But we 
serve to amuse the tragedians and play with our baubles 
while they recite their solemn lines. We are supposed 
to know nothing, and yet we supply the tragedians with 
their thoughts.” 

“Before the white man came,” she said, indicating 
a dense portion of the jungle through which they were 
riding, “I suppose the whole country resembled this. 


190 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


The red man lived according to no arbitary code. He 
took what he wanted and asked no favors. If we lived 
in that age we would have to answer to no one for 
our conduct.” 

“The native had the natural law, hadn’t he? And 
he could not escape from himself very well. To kill 
his neighbor’s deer was wicked. But I can’t understand 
why God puts these unnatural desires into man’s heart 
without giving him the liberty of satisfying them. My 
flesh and my spirit are continually at w r ar. God made 
me as I am, gave me my passions and my covetous 
desires. He wants me to be happy and still He has 
condemned me to suffer.” 

“Did He corrupt human nature—was it not the re¬ 
sult of sin?” 

“That’s just it. We sin by obeying our natural im¬ 
pulses.” 

“On the contrary. We sin by obeying our unnatural 
impulses. God made man good. He had to. But the 
first man fell from grace and inherited concupiscences, 
ignorance and death. It was not God that condemned 
man to suffer, but man himself.” 

“I can’t see it that way. We all came from the hand 
of God, religion tells us-” 

“Pure and happy.” 

“But we are not pure and happy-” 

“As a result of Adam’s sin.” 

“Do you believe that? It appears to me that we 
ought to make the most of our existence here. We 
are not sure of the future. No one has ever come 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


191 

back to tell us whether there exists a life beyond the 
grave or not.” 

“There have been apparitions of the saints.” 

“Conceived by some hypersensitive person.” 

“And the Bible assures us of the existence of heaven 
and hell.” 

“It tells us that. But who can believe it with absolute 
certitude?” 

“There is no absolute certitude except in the case 
of death. All our lives are regulated by a certitude 
that seldom approaches the absolute.” 

He was silent for a minute as if he wanted to press 
the argument no further. At length he said: 

“Well, life is certainly a puzzle to me, but while 
I’m here I am going to make the most of it. It is a 
play, tragic at times, comic, serio-comic. This after¬ 
noon we are sophists, to-night we shall be Euripideans.” 

“Will Mrs. Liggett be here to-night?” she suddenly 
asked. 

“Yes, and Mr. Liggett, too,” he replied. 

There was nothing to distinguish the dinner dance 
given that night by Kelso Wheaton at the Beach Club 
from the other brilliant affairs held there under the 
patronage of one family or another, with the single 
exception of the choice delicacies that made up the bill 
of fare. It was characteristic of Kelso to be distinctly 
individual in this as in everything else, and there were 
wines in abundance, with champagne as the chief bev¬ 
erage. Even the tiny cigarettes, scented and gold-tipped, 
were not forgotten for the ladies, and the men had a 
special brand of cigars with monogrammed wrappers 


192 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


brought for the occasion from Havana. Everything 
was wide open. The Volstead Act, apparently, was 
not intended to embrace this little island. 

“I suppose none of you gentlemen are Federal agents 
in disguise,” the younger Mr. Clark exclaimed faceti¬ 
ously, looking from one to the other as he spoke. “It 
is not always that we can have what we want when 
we want it without fear of confiscation.” 

“Rubbish!” said Kelso, laughing. “What difference 
would it make? Florida was always dry.” 

“It’s Constitutional now-” 

“What of it? Who is going to enforce the Consti¬ 
tution?” 

This was supposed to be a joke. Everybody laughed. 

“It was Bacchus, was it not, who is credited with 
discovering the culture of the vine and the mode of 
extracting its precious juice?” asked Mrs. Malley of 
Edith. 

Edith admitted that it was, rather embarrassed that 
the question should be put to her. 

“And was it not a woman who struck him mad and 
made the rest of his followers foolish?” echoed Tom 
Dargan. 

More laughter. 

“Do you know, I think mythology more interesting 
than fiction,” Mrs. Liggett volunteered. “Isn’t the 
story of Psyche the sweetest thing? A pity one so 
beautiful should have to be so miserable!” 

“You remember the cause of her misery, don’t you?” 
Kelso asked. But he had to answer his own question. 

“Curiosity!” he said. 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 193 

The joke was on Mrs. Liggett, and everybody joined 
in the laugh at her expense. That proud lady was 
clearly annoyed at finding the odds against her, but 
bore herself well and succeeded in carrying off the situ¬ 
ation. While the merriment was at its height she led 
the others, waiting for the opportunity to deliver an 
answering retort. Finally she said: 

“Like the age of chivalry, it is gone, I suppose— 
the age of curiosity. But it did give us the phono¬ 
graph.” 

A dead silence greeted this. Edith shot an admoni¬ 
tory glance at Kelso who smiled indulgently. He did 
not press the subject further, and with the consent of 
everybody it was allowed to drop. 

“Were you ever in Pompeii?” the elder of the 
Malley sisters interposed. 

“No,” Edith replied. “We are hoping to visit there 
this summer.” 

“Don’t miss the ruins,” Mrs. Liggett advised her, 
talking across the table for the benefit of all. “They 
are perfectly wonderful. Even the houses the people 
lived in are preserved. Really, they were no different 
from us—and they drank as well.” 

“I never saw the like,” Mrs. Clark declared. “The 
kitchens, chambers, baths are in perfect condition. And 
the mosaics!” 

“Did you see all of them?” Kelso inquired. 

“I did,” exclaimed Mrs. Liggett, as she reached for 
a cigarette and lighted it. 

Edith was a little disturbed. The atmosphere was 
not at all congenial. It recalled Roman banquets in 


i 9 4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


the days of the Caesars, when the elements of decay 
that ruined the old empire—wealth, vice, corruption— 
were present and unrecognized except as bizarre 
amusements. Her sensitive nature rebelled. She felt 
like an intruder in this closed assembly, where every¬ 
body conversed equally well and intelligently, called 
one another by their first names, and drank and smoked 
with apparent ease and delight. It did not serve to 
make her feel any too comfortable to be the object of 
glances that w T ere anything but kind. 

“I say, Edith, don’t you smoke?” 

She turned at the inquiry, rousing herself from her 
reverie, and faced the speaker. It was Jack Southey. 

“She has not yet taken up the habit,” Kelso replied. 

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Liggett. “As 
horribly old-fashioned as that!” 

“Tobacco sickens me,” Edith protested. 

“But these cigarettes are like perfume. Nothing to 
them.” 

“No, thank you.” 

“And you don’t drink—not even champagne? Sweet 
cider?” Mrs. Liggett was facetious. “Kelso, I thought 
you said you had married a regular fellow?” 

Edith could feel the color rising in her cheeks, but 
she tried to laugh this off with the others. Of course 
everybody was looking at her and the situation was 
embarrassing. This woman was insulting, and for the 
moment she wanted to tell her so, but on second thought 
decided not to. She paid no attention to the remark, 
and it was soon forgotten. 

By this time several of the party had left the table 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 195 

for the dancing which followed. Kelso arose to open 
a fresh bottle and began to fill the glasses. When he 
sat down again he was next to Mrs. Liggett and began 
whispering to her. Edith’s eyes were fastened on him, 
until at length Mrs. Liggett cried out: 

“My w T ord, Kelso! I actually believe your pretty 
little wife is jealous of me. Look! She is getting 
angry.” 

No one seemed to overhear the remark, and Edith, 
engaging Jack Southey in conversation, pretended not 
to notice it. But she struggled so within herself that 
she felt herself growing weak, so weak that she feared 
something would happen. She looked up and saw 
Evelyn gazing at her. In her sister-in-law’s eyes she 
thought she found encouragement and hope. 

Things were no better when they went upstairs; they 
grew worse, but she put forth her best efforts. She 
had hoped so ardently to enjoy herself this evening, 
because this had been the sort of life that seemed to 
appeal to her. But when she saw it in its nakedness 
she began to yearn again for the quiet days of old. 
This society was dull and idle. It was social and un¬ 
intellectual. Luncheon, luncheon, luncheon—it was 
just one array of foodstuffs after another, with dancing 
all the time. Or it was bridge, or rummy, or roulette. 
Once she had read that “women in America are an 
ornament, in England an object, in France a passion,” 
and she believed it to-night for the first time. 

The wheel of chance was turning, with everybody 
mute until it stopped. Suspense held the crowd until 


196 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


the winning number was announced and then there was 
an uproar. 

“Betty Liggett again," they cried out, “and odds 
seventeen to one." 

“Ten to one," Kelso shouted, “you don't win the 
next." 

“You're on," she replied, hilariously. 

The wheel spun, lingered, stopped. 

“Number Fourteen," announced the croupier. 

Mrs. Liggett had won again. 

The reckless playing of the woman caused Edith no 
little astonishment. She won because she did not w T ant 
to win. That was the impression she created, with 
her casual manner, flippant behavior and recklessness. 
Three or more of the company played against her 
constandy but coquettish Fortune still smiled on her. 
This seemed to be Mrs. Liggett's evening; no one else 
had so much as an even chance with her. 

“Mrs. Liggett," Edith cried aloud, seized with 
desperate desire. “I'll bet you an even hundred on 
the red." 

‘You can't play that way,'' Tom Flogan reminded 
her. 

“Why can’t I?" she flared back. “This is a sidq 
bet.” 

The croupier bowed his head. He had no jurisdic¬ 
tion over side bets so long as the rest of the company 
continued to play the wheel. 

“What do you say?" Edith challenged her. 

“Taken!" came back the instant response. 

Edith played on the red and won. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 197 

“Beginner’s luck!” Mrs. Liggett exclaimed. 

“Play the pile,” Tom Hogan advised her. 

“Two hundred on the red,” Edith cried, and again 
the red color was called. 

“Leave the bundle where it is,” she commanded. 
“Four hundred on the red.” 

Mrs. Liggett covered her again. 

“Red wins!” everybody called. 

“Eight hundred! Red!” Edith challenged, her face 
ablaze with excitement. 

“My heavens!” Mrs. Liggett cried. “Where did 
you learn to play?” 

“Eight hundred!” Edith reminded her. 

“It is covered.” 

And Edith won again. 

The company were wildly excited over this duel. In 
the course of ten minutes Edith Wheaton had won 
fifteen hundred dollars from one woman. Mrs. Liggett 
scowled fiercely, and Edith was elated, happy at the 
triumph she had won over her rival just at the moment 
when she was bent on receiving the most applause . . . 
She knew that she would win, she knew Kelso was 
approving her! That was her stake, as well as her joy 
and heart’s treasure. 

Later in the evening, the game room being filled wfith 
a number of strange guests anxious to test their luck 
with the mischievous ball, Kelso withdrew with his 
party to the main floor, where dancing was in progress. 
Like noisy, frolicsome children they descended the 
stairs in twos and threes, their voices suspiciously 
husky, rising and falling in meaningless banter and gay 


198 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

repartee. Betty laid a light and artless hand on Kelso’s 
arm and took precedence at the head of the procession, 
while Edith trailed behind w T ith Jack Southey whom 
she particularly detested, since he was the one who had 
brought Kelso and this woman together for the first 
time on this beach two seasons before. 

Far into the morning they danced, a customary pro¬ 
cedure at all these functions. Negro boys were assist¬ 
ing spent guests outside to their wheel-chairs, and 
women giggled shrilly and persistently. Edith grew 
restive at this hideous spectacle—hot, stuffy quarters, 
couples half asleep on the lounges and divans, women’s 
painted faces streaked with perspiration. She rose to 
leave. Passing through the hall she saw a spectacle 
at the other end that sapped her vitality and left her 
cold as death. There stood Kelso and Mrs. Liggett 
in close embrace, the woman’s bare arms about his neck, 
his dark form hardly visible in the obscure light. 

“Kelso!” she called. 

They came toward her, a sheepish look of guilt on 
their faces. 

“Don’t you think we ought to go home?” she asked 
quietly. 

He nodded and passed without a word, leaving her 
standing a lonely figure in the empty hall. 


XV 


L ATER, after she had dressed for the day, Edith 
a wandered down to the bathing beach. She was 
alone, Kelso having risen before her and de¬ 
parted early. None too spirited as a result of sleepless 
hours and a quarrelsome morning she sauntered along 
the boardwalk, misery darkening her brow. Her 
determination was anything but irresolute. The ex¬ 
perience of the night before had but served to steel 
her to stubborn insubordination. 

Evelyn, seated in a beach chair with her needles and 
yarn, accosted her. 

“Why!” she observed, “how dreadfully preoccupied 
you appear to be! You would have gone right by me. 
Where is Kelso?” 

“Bathing, I guess. Have you seen him?” 

“No—but I have not looked for him,” she added 
quickly. “He must be here, of course. Tell me—what 
has happened?” 

Edith drew back, startled, and made an involuntary 
motion of surprise. 

“He has told you?” she asked, trembling. 

“My dear, no, absolutely nothing! But I know my 
brother so well that I inferred that he was out of sorts. 
You are the only one who matters with him, and so 


199 


200 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

I naturally concluded that you had been having a little 
tilt.” 

“It is nothing/' But Edith’s self-restraint was fast 
vanishing. 

“Of course it concerned Mrs. Liggett,'' Evelyn said 
blandly. 

This time Edith could not conceal the feeling that 
swept over her. 

“Yes,” she unwillingly admitted. 

“What has she done?” 

“Done! She's done everything possible. I hate 
her.” 

“Now, Edith! You shouldn't say that. She isn't 
worth it.” 

“I don't care," retorted Edith, indignantly, “she’s a 
vile serpent. And the way he carries on with her is 
perfectly shocking. I told him this morning he ought 
to be ashamed of himself. If she hasn't any shame 
he ought to know better. Since we came here it is 
Betty, Betty, until I am sick and tired of hearing her 
name. If we are alone she calls him on the telephone 
to make a date for dinner. If we go for a walk she 
is sure to be perched on the front porch or in the parlor. 
Last night—well, it was scandalous . . 

Her white teeth flashed and the upper part of her 
face, the shadows about the eyes, the slight drawing in 
of the brows suggested furious anger. Evelyn saw it 
and almost regretted her intensity. 

“That’s his way, my dear," she assured her with 
evident honest}*. “Kelso means all right, but he hasn't 
the heart to hurt any one's feelings. He is simply a 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


201 


womans man, that is all. He is fond of them all— 
and shares his heart generally—for which everybody 
likes him. And he does everything so gallantly! Why, 
you have only to look at him? Or listen to his talk? 
And it is not altogether his fault. People make too 
much of him.” 

“He’s old enough to know better than to succumb to 
every woman he meets ...” 

“But all men are not stoics. And you’ll have to 
allow that Betty is unusually attractive-” 

“She’s a brazen piece. A painted doll!” 

“They all are nowadays. You rouge yourself-’’ 

“I don't have to,” she flung back triumphantly. 

“But,” Evelyn averred, amused at her sister-in-law’s 
indignation, “take all the women you meet here. You 
surely do not question their conduct; and yet you must 
admit that just a touch of color heightens their attrac¬ 
tions !” 

“A married woman has no right to attract any one 
but her husband!” 

“And the rest of the world generally!” 

“Well, it seems to me that a wife should consider 
only those things which can interest her husband. When 
she arrays herself like Cleopatra she is but enticing 
other men.” 

Evelyn laughed. 

“You are outspoken anyhow, my dear. And you are 
not up-to-date. It is the customary thing for ladies 
to do these things now. They drink, flirt, smoke-” 

“No lady smokes,” Edith corrected. 

“Any number of them; and they say it is very com- 





202 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


forting. especially when you are alone: and fascinating, 
as well, to watch the thin, blue smoke curl into the air. 

“When a woman drinks and smokes you may as well 
hang a sign on her.'' 

“Why, Edith! How very shocking you are! What¬ 
ever pu: that terrible notion into your head:'’ 

“I suppose I have been raised that way. Somehow 
or other I cannot grow accustomed to this manner of 
life. It sickens me. I told Kelso he would find me 
anything but an apt pupil.” 

Evelyn sat in silence a few minutes. During the 
interval she go: a small vanity case out of her purse, 
opened it and looked with critical interest at her mouth 
and nose. She wanted to tease Edith, but the latter 
pretended not to nonce her. Finally she closed it, re¬ 
stored it to its proper place, and said: 

“Is that why you think so little of Mrs. Liggett?” 

“Actions are the best interpreter of character,” came 
back the cold reply. 

“Well.” Evelyn volunteered, “you must remember 
that Mrs. Liggett is a modem woman. Not question¬ 
able, understand, but simply indifferent to all conven¬ 
tionalities. She is married—but what of that? She 
won't be bothered with children, for she likes a good 
time and she means to enjoy herself. If she does smoke 
now and then, or take a highball, it is more from 
gayety than habit. She is attractive, and manages to 
keep herself attractive, for she knows that her popu¬ 
larity depends upon her personal appearance. Ethic¬ 
ally she is correct- 

“Look at her now,’’ Edith interrupted. 



203 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

Evelyn looked, and saw her brother and Mrs. Lig¬ 
gett on the edge of the beach. Kelso had just caught 
her, and, seizing her hand, was engaged in pulling her 
into the water. She went under, and a moment later 
reappeared, dripping, laughing, breathless and climbed 
back to the sun-baked sand. Evelyn waved a friendly 
greeting. He responded by coming straight to where 
they sat, followed presently bv Mrs. Liggett herself. 

“W e were watching you,” Evelyn said. “It sent cold 
shivers down my back.” 

“I deserved that ducking, I suppose,” Mrs. Liggett 
rejoined. “Really,” she added, addressing her remarks 
to Edith, “your husband is awful.’’ 

“You must be more gentle with Mrs. Liggett, 
Kelso,” Edith admonished her husband. 

“Come out and I’ll duck you, too,” Kelso replied in 
his characteristic jovial way. 

“Not I, thank vou,” she said icilv. 

“Oh, well, I didn't think you would,” he looked at 
Mrs. Liggett and smiled. 

No answer he could have made could have more ex¬ 
asperated his wife. How like him it was to want to 
show this other woman just how clever he could be! 
How it would have wounded his pride to be obliged 
to humble himself before his wife in this lady's pres¬ 
ence! It never occurred to him for an instant that his 
enjoyment was at the expense of another's defeat or 
that his pleasure meant another's pain and chagrin. He 
was proud of his aptitude to turn aside a reproof with 
his ready tongue, and the smile he bestowed upon Mrs. 


204 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


Liggett was equally indicative of his complete satis¬ 
faction with himself. 

And as for Edith, the more she looked at him the 
more she was struck by his easy, magnetic manner and 
attractive countenance. Even with his w T et, matted hair 
covering his head in confusion, there was something 
about him that was compelling. He need not be dressed 
fashionably to be graceful, or to be virile for that mat¬ 
ter. A strong, masculine personality was his at all times, 
whether one regarded the broad back with shoulders 
high and rigid, or the short neck with the firm and 
square jaw resting determinedly upon it. He was a 
man to compel the admiration of any woman. 

Mrs. Liggett’s face was round and full; a saucer- 
face, Edith sarcastically called it. It w r as never still. 
The large and splendid dark eyes played a conspicuous 
part in her haunting beauty; the heavy masses of raven 
hair brought low on the forehead and cheek and caught 
high in back (she had removed her bathing cap) ; even 
the little flare of color in the cheeks intensified her bru¬ 
nette type—all these combined to unite in a spirit extra¬ 
ordinarily mirthful and mischievous, a supremely airy 
and careless and bold spirit, that would challenge in 
combat the stoutest heart of the most phlegmatic man. 
Edith realized at a glance how dangerous was this 
woman, and she wondered if Kelso realized it. Per¬ 
haps he did and was enjoying it for the mischief that 
might be in it! 

Wasn’t it like men to allow themselves to be flattered 
and cajoled by women of this type? Pretty and 
painted, chic and smart! Genuine assets in the world 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 205 

of to-day. Whether a girl possessed character or not 
made little difference, so long as she was gifted with 
charms of figure and face. Most men, it seemed, did 
not want a helpmate. Instead of a wife they sought 
an ornament, fashionable, and expensive, but an orna¬ 
ment none the less, suitable for exhibition purposes 
only. Classic lines, oh, yes! And pretty to gaze upon! 
Odd Kelso could not see this. Strange and odd! 

She fought to control the impulse to tell him so. 
She fought against the discretion which importuned her 
to hold her peace. How she hated this woman! From 
the moment she had identified her with the obnoxious 
gossip who had crept so furtively to Bert Colman’s 
office, to put him on his guard against Kelso Wheaton, 
she had positively disliked her and feared her. It was 
a score that would soon be outlawed unless prompt 
settlement were made, and nothing could afford her 
more pleasure than to pay her back in her own coin. 
She w r ould be merciless. If only Kelso could see this 
proud beauty wincing under a deserved blow. Some¬ 
thing like this must be done to bring him to his senses 
—for Evelyn had touched the right note when she 
described him as a woman’s man. His gallantry 
was bound to be his undoing—and hers, too. 

He was talking to Mrs. Liggett now—he was calling 
her by her first name: 

“What do you say, Betty? Another swim?” 

They were off. 

“Oh, I say, Edith,” he called back. “You don’t 
mind, do you?” 

Edith said, “No, of course not. Silly!” 



206 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


Silly! She wondered what made her say that. 

Some time later they met for refreshments on the 
Breakers’ Porch. This was customary. The bathing 
hour usually terminated in a rendezvous at the Break¬ 
ers, where sturdy wire tables and chairs were set out 
for the accomodation of the guests, where variegated 
fruit juices were indolently sipped through artificial 
straws, where a forty-piece orchestra produced synco¬ 
pated melodies both for the exhilaration of the weary 
spirits of tired men and women and the excitation of 
the restless spirits of indefatigable choreomaniacs. 
Skill, science and art had contributed to produce the 
most perfect of settings. Great royal palms guarded 
the entrance; Washington palms and cocoa-palms tow¬ 
ered aloft from the grassy inclosure and formed a 
perfect canopy overhead; immense flower-beds rested 
at regular intervals along the greensward, proudly dis¬ 
playing the richly tinted flora of the tropics, and de¬ 
lighting the eye and sweetening the air with their 
freshness of color and delicious fragrance. 

Edith was wondering what had become of Henry 
Liggett. He had not been seen all morning. She was 
beginning to think him the humblest and the most ob¬ 
scure person she had ever met, when, suddenly she 
spied him coming down the veranda, making his way 
between the rows of tables and chairs and heading 
directly for them. He was smoking a cigarette in a 
way that was thoroughly nonchalant. Everything about 
him was nonchalant. The way he carried his cane 
under his arm, the tops of his gray suede gloves turned 
down below the wrist, the sweep of the watch chain 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 207 

from a higher pocket to a lower, the angle of his hat, 
the ease of his gait—all served to indicate a state of 
mind which was neither interested nor concerned. He 
observed the groups of revelers seated around the 
tables and returned several greetings nonchalantly. He 
approached the Wheaton table and bade them the time 
of day. He ordered a whisky-sour, rubbed his bony 
hands together, and smiled at each member of the party 
indifferently. 

“Well, Henry!'’ his wife said to him. “What have 
you to say for yourself?” 

“Nothing!” came back the thoroughly non-commital 
reply. 

He never seemed to have anything to say. It looked 
farcical, this shadowy existence of Henry Liggett. As 
far as anybody else was concerned he was a nonentity, 
but no one seemed to pay any attention to it, least of 
all Henry Liggett himself. 

“Where have you been keeping yourself all 
morning?” 

“Just walking around—here and there—nowhere in 
particular. Wanted a walk, that’s all.” 

“What are you folks going to have?” Kelso asked, 
generally. 

“I want lemon and lime,” Edith replied and Evelyn 
nodded a like request. 

“Let me have a cigarette,” said Mrs. Liggett. 

“Wonderful place, this!” Liggett observed. 

“Wonderful!” agreed Kelso. 

Said Liggett again, “Wonderful folks!” 

Yes.—All agreed to this—in silence. 


208 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“They make this place wonderful,” he persisted. 
“Ever notice their peculiarities?” 

“Now please, Henry, don’t begin to preach,” his 
wife pleaded. “You know, Henry views everything 
with a critical eye. He is for ever applying principles 
and putting them to work.” 

Henry chuckled. 

“Quite right, my dear. Quite right,” he said, very 
much amused. “You know, flattery itself is never 
straightforward—never. A flatterer who is clever 
always takes it for granted that every man is extra¬ 
ordinary—when he is quite the contrary. We call 
these folks the wisest, bravest, most benevolent and 
most beautiful of all mankind—when we mean they are 
simply wealthy. You have noticed that, I am sure. 
The newspapers are to blame for this. They indulge 
too persistently in the superlative. Were you ever 
interviewed? No! . . . You would never recognize 
yourself, so exaggerated would the value and the im¬ 
portance of your natural qualities appear.” 

“Rather interesting, is it not?” Edith said, “in view 
of the fact that we have been taught to believe in the 
existence of two rival worlds, worlds that have nothing 
in common.” 

“Ah! That’s just the specious distinction. Specious, 
mind!” he cautioned with a bony finger poised in the 
air. “No such distinction ever did exist until the soci¬ 
ety columns of the newspapers appeared. A dark, 
squalid world that some could never sink to, and a 
gay but little world which the majority could never 
climb to. That was it, eh? There were Four Hun- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 209 

dred families in the gay, little world until the Hundred 
Thousand families discovered the secret. Now there 
is no gay, little world.” 

“A specious distinction!” Edith thoughtfully re¬ 
peated and looked away. A butterfly, gayly colored 
and delicate, attracted her attention by its exquisite 
beauty and extreme restlessness. Its gauzy, tinsel wings 
were never still. It never delayed for more than a 
second at any blossom. But every flower bowed down 
in admiration as it passed. 

She looked up with a little smile that was half sad. 

“Of course, there is no one who is not successful,” 
Henry Liggett continued. “That a thing is successful 
merely means that it is. The wealthy are successful in 
being wealthy, that is all. So is a donkey successful 
in being a donkey. We are one half pretense at our 
best, and only partly earnest. This place is won¬ 
derful because it is built entirely on pretense.” 

“What would you have us do,” Kelso inquired, “for 
I presume you would include all of us in your category? 
Reform it altogether, with Hamlet, or punish the race 
with extinction?” 

Henry Liggett saw nothing facetious in this remark. 
To him it was not even witty. 

“Aristocracy is only a vision—a deliberate indul¬ 
gence in a certain picture of pleasure. We dream of 
a happy race and we paint a mythical isle and give it 
the name of Utopia. This is Utopia—where pride 
and scorn are worshiped exclusively. And mankind 
never really admires pride. Mankind never has any¬ 
thing but scorn for scorn. The men and women of 


2io THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


modern Utopia scorn indissoluble marriages and chil¬ 
dren. You have observed that, I am sure.” 

Kelso watched the dancers for a moment, languidly. 
Finally he turned to Edith. 

“Let us dance,” he said. “You wall find it more 
interesting.” 

But she did not care to. She was profoundly ab¬ 
sorbed in Henry Liggett’s remarks. He was voicing 
abstract truths in a way she had never heard before. 

“Come on, Kelso, I’ll dance with you,” Mrs. Lig¬ 
gett cried out, laying her unfinished cigarette on the 
tray. “Let us have done with this sermonizing. 
Henry, you ought to be an evangelist or something.” 

They were gone. Edith could not resist following 
them with her eyes. And there came a thought to her, 
a thought that had been first expressed by Evelyn 
Wheaton, long ago. 

“Henry Liggett is a splendid fellow, but too old. 
Her heart yearns for youth’s companionship and ro¬ 
mance.” 

Modern Utopia made this possible. 

Edith found Henry Liggett a satisfactory compan¬ 
ion. He was intelligent, quiet, and spoke the thoughts 
of a mind matured by judgment and apprehension. 
He was not a cynic, much as his wife would have others 
believe it, and he certainly seemed cool and calculating, 
an expert analyst of men and manners. His clothes, 
his clear-cut, rounded, sun-tanned face indicated correct 
personality, and yet there was a suggestion of banality 
about him in the thoroughly negligent method of his 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 211 


speech and actions indicative of simplicity of tastes and 
equality of spirit and method. 

Once before, at Westlawn, she felt the same admira¬ 
tion for him and experienced the same irresistible im¬ 
pulse to reveal her mind and give him her confidence. 
He was ever the same, gentle, genial, inviting and con¬ 
stant. To-day he seemed to sense her distress, for he 
continued to look at her earnestly, almost with com¬ 
passion. She spoke to him—they were alone, for 
Evelyn, too, was dancing—and he replied like one who 
clearly understood. 

“Never let a man know how much you care for him,” 
he said to her, “and never let your heart supersede 
your judgment. Be affectionate, but by no means sub¬ 
servient. It is flattery that makes fools of us all. If 
you are unhappy let him not be the first to know it, 
but pull yourself together and seek, by artful methods, 
to sustain his interest in you. Outwit him at every 
turn. The secret of discipline lies in keeping the sub¬ 
ject ignorant of what goes on in the mind of the 
master.” 

“You saw him, didn’t you? You don’t mind . . . ?” 

“Her? No I don’t mind her; and if I did I wouldn’t 
acknowledge it. Did you ever observe a dog teasing 
a cat? He doesn’t want to hurt the cat; he only wants 
to have fun with it, to annoy it. If the cat turns on 
him or sits complacent, uninterested in the disturbance 
he is creating, he will soon tire of the sport, and wander 
aimlessly away. I never let Betty think I am displeased 
with what she does. She is the kind that likes to tease, 


2 i2 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


but I let her see that it has no effect on me. In time 
she will tire of her foolishness.” 

She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of 
being overheard. He saw this but paid no attention. 

“You are shocked?” he went on. “Yes, of course; 
I understand. But you know you can never make a 
man fond of you. Intimidation never begot love. The 
King of France could not alter the determination of 
a princess though he had a whole kingdom to cast at 
her feet. You want to hold the affections of your 
husband—but to do so you must never let him be sure 
of you. If you see him slipping away do not storm 
and fret over it. Set about very deliberately to learn 
the causes of his indifference and overcome them. Be 
attractive, but stoop to conquer.” 

H er lips tightened, her eyes narrowed. Something 
within her rebelled against this doctrine. For the first 
time she was comparing, in her own mind, the new 
life with the old. 


XVI 


A. 


GENERATION wasted, perverse, luxurious- 
rushing to ruin as rapids rush to the sea- 




Three months since, Bert Colman found him¬ 
self repeating these words before the House Committee 
on Judiciary. He was gravely, deeply interested in a 
particular resolution proposing a twentieth amendment 
to the Constitution, which would give Congress power 
to establish and enforce, by appropriate legislation, 
uniform laws as to marriage and divorce. But the 
business before Congress was enormous, with a pro¬ 
gram of legislation requiring action that threatened to 
carry the session well through July and August. He 
had introduced the measure at the beginning of the 
session, and it had been very promptly referred to 
Committee. For three months he had fought the Com¬ 
mittee, urging early consideration of his measure—but 
to no avail. It was m w the middle of June, and he 
was on the point of despair. The stern resolve that 
had endured all this while was giving way to serious 
misgivings. 

Two days, and all had changed. The Committee 
on Judiciary suddenly took up the Colman resolution 
for consideration, and reported the measure back to 
the House, with the recommendation for favorable 
action. But here was more delay. The Farmers’ 


213 




214 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

Bloc was daily growing stronger, and it threatened to 
hold the whip hand over Congress unless a compromise 
was effected. It already had forced the Agricultural 
Bill through both Houses and was now insisting on legis¬ 
lation, providing long term credits for farmers, re¬ 
duction of railroad rates, adequate tariff protection for 
agricultural products, and an amendment to the Fed¬ 
eral Reserve Law so as to permit an additional 
member representing the farming interests to sit on 
the Board. There was the Soldiers’ Bonus Bill, and 
who dared prophesy the length of debate on this meas¬ 
ure with the President opposed to it? And there was 
the Treaty of Peace with Germany, soon to be reported 
back to the Senate from the Foreign Relations’ Com¬ 
mittee. No one, it seemed wanted any further delay 
in the matter of ratification, with the country clamoring 
for peace and a repeal of war measures, many of which 
were still in force. Everybody was certain that the 
debate on this subject alone would continue for several 
weeks at the very least—so the Colman resolution 
seemed doomed to expire on the table. 

It may have been the sight of so many measures 
before this important session of Congress, or it may 
have been the natural desire to inject a personal equa¬ 
tion into the problem of reform that prompted Bert 
in the first place to frame the resolution calling upon 
Congress to take action in the matter of a national 
divorce law. The time was indeed opportune. Day 
by day the press applauded the suggestion. A pre¬ 
liminary report, issued by the Census Bureau and show¬ 
ing that in the ten-year period before 1920 the number 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 215 

of divorced persons in relation to the total population 
in the United States had increased .4 per cent, lent 
local color to the proposition. What with the national 
pride mortified by the number and the character of 
the sordid expositions perpetrated in the divorce courts 
during the past year, and the national weeklies devoting 
column after column to a persistent discussion of the 
national malady, it was small wonder that thinking men 
and women were lifting their voices, clamoring for 
uniform marriage and divorce laws to relieve these 
degrading conditions. Clergymen, alarmed at their 
insidious growth, advocated the complete abolition of 
absolute divorce, while others, more moderately in¬ 
clined, sought to remedy the source of the abnormal 
disease by placing restrictions on the grounds for 
divorce and making obligatory the publication of banns 
several weeks before the marriage ceremony was per¬ 
formed. 

Bert had given careful consideration to these various 
solutions of the vexatious question, and came to the 
conclusion that a federal marriage and divorce law, 
regulating marriage and dissolving it under certain 
limited conditions, was the only remedy for the menace. 
The wrong that he himself had been compelled to en¬ 
dure he ascribed to the glaring inconsistencies and 
discrepancies in the marriage and divorce laws of the 
various States. Were it not for the fact that some of 
the States did not require the personal attendance of 
both parties, Edith Colman would never have obtained 
her decree. New York would have nullified the action 
upon his subsequent application had he been a resident 


216 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


of that State instead of Connecticut, where the laws 
of other States in this matter were recognized. There 
was the further appalling fact that the United States 
to-day headed the list of divorce-ridden countries with 
a ratio of one divorce in less than every nine mar¬ 
riages. This was not a pleasant pabulum for the nour¬ 
ishment of the national mind. His fondest hopes lay 
in the framing of a measure that would make a general 
appeal, a national uniform marriage and divorce law 
that would function alike for all those who would have 
recourse to it, one that would protect marriage against 
failure, divorce against multiplication, and safeguard 
impartially all those concerned—the wife, the husband, 
the children and the nation. 

He dedicated himself to this task, throwing himself 
into the work with a sort of dogged desperation. It 
served as an avenue of escape for the pent-up humors 
of his wounded nature. His wife gone, his home 
broken up, his child separated from him, indeed the 
world wore a sordid hue. In this resolution of his 
alone did he find enthusiasm, or interest. He was 
anxious for its success. But the session sped on and 
on. The Treaty of Peace with Germany was brought 
in and ratified; the Income Tax Bill was amended, 
and the Maternity Bill was before the House for con¬ 
sideration. Never before had the world promised so 
tremendous an opportunity as it seemed to promise 
now, and never before had his hopes of living to see 
it been so problematical. 

The following week he was home. 

Home! His face curled in a sardonic smile. There 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 217 

was no home, except a dwelling-place. There was no 
home, except seeing Babs and taking her into his arms, 
and measuring the extent of her growth, and knowing 
that she was his own. Even she was no longer the tiny, 
helpless thing with pink face and pink toes and pink, 
sensitive skin that quivered at the touch, but a strangely 
human thing, growing apart from him and getting big¬ 
ger and stronger every day. She was a separate entity 
now, living her own life and spinning about herself a 
veil of self-interest. She was an individual who moved 
and talked and took matters into her own hands. It 
was the natural law, he supposed, but it had never 
seemed so terrible, so significant to him before—until 
they had begun to live apart, he with Dr. Dahill and she 
in this big, red, austere building. It was cold, this board¬ 
ing-school life, and he began to see the artificial influ¬ 
ence it would exercise on her temperament. Whatever 
development was acquired here it could never compen¬ 
sate for the loss of a mother’s love and word and ex¬ 
ample. 

He sat in the parlor now awaiting his little girl, just 
as he would await the presence of a perfect stranger 
whom he had come to interview. These occasional 
meetings produced a tremendous effect upon him. 
Memories of other days awoke from their slumbers, 
when life was pleasant and happy, when he and Edith 
had their home, their cheerful fireside, their child. 
That was before his wife discovered she no longer 
loved him, before they lived together from sheer force 
of habit, and went through the familiar rites of daily 
communion without interest or devotion. Indifference 


2iS THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


had made its way between them, and the mysterious 
warmth that had touched their world witlr ardor and 
intensity was gone. Gone also was the flame of adora¬ 
tion, gone was his home and contentment, gone was 
everything except this precious child. But she alone 
was left. 

She came running in now and threw herself upon 
him. hanging on his neck in a strangling fashion more 
like a little octopus than human being. Soon she was 
working her Angers over his shoulders and down his 
back to his pockets, her busy little hands feeling here 
and there for the noise of crumpling paper. Babs 
knew that crumpling paper was an auspicious omen. 
Its noise was gratiiying to the ear. But this time she 
was disappointed—momentarily; and she drew back 
wondering, her Anger in her mouth. Only when he sat 
her on his lap in the big chair, and drew from behind it 
some large bundles did her eyes flash and her head bob 
up and down. 

“lou don't know what I have, now, do you?” he 
asked. 

She looked at him wistfully. 

“What is it?” she asked. “Candy?" 

“Yes, here is candy,” he replied, raising the smaller 
of the two bundles. “But what have I in the other 
one?” 

“Popcorn!” 

“No. It is not good to eat.'’ 

“A new dress!" 

“Open and see." 

Both of them attacked the string vigorously, tearing 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 219 

rather than removing the wrapping paper from the 
white pasteboard box, removing the lid and casting it 
aside impatiently, rending some more layers of tissue- 
paper and revealing a large-sized sleeping doll, clothed 
fully in a blue embroidered dress, short baby blue socks, 
and hat and slippers to match. 

“Oh-oh!” Babs exclaimed, clasping her hands in ad¬ 
miration. But they more quickly reached out for the 
prize. 

“Look, daddy! It goes right to sleep. See, when 
you do this!” 

The complacent father smiled approvingly. 

“And she has real hair. See!” 

Yes, he knew it. 

“Did you buy me this?” 

“Of course. Do you like it?” 

“Yes, daddy! What else did you buy me?” 

Her father laughed. 

“A typical woman!” he said. 

“What did you say?” 

“I said you were like all girls.” 

She did not understand this. 

“What did you learn in school to-day?” he then in¬ 
quired. “Do you like the Sisters, and are you very 
good?” 

She nodded, taken up with the doll. 

“And you do everything they tell you?” 

“Yes, daddy.” 

“You don’t get lonesome—or tired of it here? Or 
would you rather come with me?” 

“Home to mother?” 


220 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


The words cut him like a lash. He did rrot answer, 
for he could not. But the effect was sorrowful. 

Finally the door opened and the Sister Superior came 
in to greet him. He was glad, but he could not con¬ 
ceal the intense anxiety he felt at those few words. 
Home! Mother! Alas! 

That same night he sat in Dr. Dahill’s office. 

“It is unjust and unnatural to ignore the rights of 
that innocent child, to separate her from her home, her 
parents. It tears my heart every time I see her. I 
cannot help it. To-day she again asked for her 
mother.” 

“And you, very naturally, avoided the question,” 
replied the doctor. 

“Some day she will know, God help her! I should 
have allowed her to go with her mother in the first 
place.” 

“But Edith did not want the child. Did she?” 

There was a pause. The doctor waited for him to 
break it. 

“The child’s place is beside her mother’s knee. You 
know that as well as I. What have I to give her? 
Not even a home, much less maternal instinct. And 
while the Academy is fine, still it is not home. Already 
I can perceive the difference.” 

Dr. Dahill arose to fetch cigars, for he wanted to 
break off the discussion. Bert could never talk about 
Babs and be a man. 

“How is Washington?” he asked. 

“The Committee has reported back my resolution. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 221 


I expect it to be called up next week, just as soon as 
the Maternity Bill is out of the way.” 

“What is the sentiment?” 

“Pretty evenly divided. The resolution I have pro¬ 
posed calls upon Congress to prohibit absolute divorce 
entirely, though granting separation from bed and 
board without the subsequent right to marry. There 
are many who differ with me, but the real fight will 
hinge on the question of State’s Rights.” 

“What have the States to do with the proper adjust¬ 
ment of a national problem?” 

“That’s just it. To-day the legislators of each indi¬ 
vidual State frame their own laws, the result of which 
is a regular patchwork, running the gamut of matri¬ 
monial delinquencies, from that of South Carolina 
which grants no divorce, to that of Washington which 
permits absolute divorce for any cause deemed by the 
court sufficient.” 

“The confusion arises from the fact that the courts 
of one State will not enforce the laws of another-” 

“They cannot. They are powerless. The Supreme 
Court has decided that under certain conditions a State 
may refuse to recognize the extra-territorial effect of a 
divorce granted in another State. Let us suppose, for 
instance, you are married in New York, where you re¬ 
side for years, have a family and own real and personal 
estate. You desire a divorce and go to Indiana to 
procure it. There you re-marry, have other children 
and acquire additional property. You tire of your 
second wife, go to California, get another divorce, re¬ 
marry again, forming a new family and acquiring new 



222 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


property. Then you return to New York, where you 
discover that your first wife has obtained a decree on 
the grounds of your adulterous marriage in Indiana, 
which sets her free and prevents your marrying again 
during her lifetime. You die intestate. What is the 
legal status of your children? The first wife’s children 
are legitimate and heirs to the estate everywhere. The 
Indiana wife’s children are legitimate there, but prob¬ 
ably illegitimate everywhere else. The California chil¬ 
dren are legitimate there, but illegitimate in Indiana 
and elsewhere. There is real and personal property 
in each of these States. There are three widows, each 
entitled to dower, and a number of surely innocent chil¬ 
dren, whose legitimacy and property are at stake.” 

“What you say is true—but will the laws of States 
or the laws of Church, for that matter, put a stop to 
the mischief? Is it not the sentiment of the people that 

OH 

scores r 

“True enough, but with escape from an unwise mar¬ 
riage rendered extremely difficult, people will be more 
cautious in entering into it. To-day matrimony means 
no more than an experiment. We rush into it like 
fools, never pausing to consider what it means until we 
get there. The examination takes place after the pur¬ 
chase. W 7 e know the contract is not binding. Why 
scruple over our choice?” 

“And you think there will be fewer experiments, mid¬ 
night marriages, hasty courtships because of your 
measure-” 

“I think this. When two people know that once 
they are married they are united for life, for better or 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


223 


worse, they will exercise greater care in selecting the 
proper sort of person they want to live with the rest 
of their days. When they know they are allowed to 
make but one choice, they will make that choice more 
wisely. One of the chief causes of the failure of mar¬ 
riage is the lack of preparation for marriage. We do 
not realize what marriage means—its restraints, its 
reciprocity, its responsibilities.” 

“Your remedy for all this is effective legisla¬ 
tion-” 

Bert looked at him with his searching blue eyes 
through the cloud of smoke wreathed about his head. 
He leaned forward as he said: 

“Do you want to know the only remedy? I clipped 
it from a paper this morning: ‘Christ! Christ at the 
betrothal; Christ at the altar; Christ on the bridal jour¬ 
ney; Christ when the new home is set up; Christ when 
the baby comes; Christ in the pinching times; Christ in 
the days of plenty; Christ when the wedded pair walk 
toward the sunset gates; Christ when one is taken and 
the other left; Christ for time—Christ for eternity.’ ” 

Far into the night they sat and talked, like two old 
sailors on watch, whiling away the hours with stories 
of common interests and achievements. Bert always 
found it to his own advantage to share his confidences 
with his learned friend, who had a peculiar faculty of 
getting to the heart of every problem. The doctor was 
not a man of many words, or of wandering glances. 
There were a few silver hairs in his beard, but he 
looked as solid as a statue. He was a medical expert, 



224 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


but he was a logician as well. And logicians are usu¬ 
ally fond of analogy. 

• » 

“Another point you might use," he suggested. 
‘‘Draw an analogy from ancient Rome." 

“Rome!” 

“Yes. What a state! The greatest of antiquity! 
And undermined by her own citizens! Rome owed her 
primitive solidarity and indomitable strength in great 
measure to the unit}' and perpetuity’ of the Roman fam¬ 
ily. The family was the integral unit of the state—a 
state within a state. It is Lecky, I think, who says that 
for 520 years there was no such thing as divorce known 
in Rome. And was it not Cato who would rather be a 
good husband than a great senator?" 

“Cicero-” 

“No! Cicero repudiated his wife. It was Cato. 
Well, what happened? The wealth of the world began 
to pour into Rome. Luxury and sensuality went hand 
in hand. Conjugal felicity became the scofi of the 
poet: marriage began to lose its sacred character and 
became a mere civil contract. The wife no longer ex¬ 
isted under the control of the husband and was dis¬ 
missed at will. The Emperor Augustus forced the 
husband of Lydia to divorce her that he might have her 
for himself. Chid and Pliny the Younger took to them¬ 
selves three wives. Caesar and Antony had four. 
Sulla and Pompey, five. One woman had ten husbands. 
Another had eight husbands in live years. St. Jerome 
relates that there was a woman in Rome who had mar¬ 
ried her twenty-third husband, she herself being his 
twentv-hrst wife. Roman life became rotten to the 

w 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


225 


core, a vast slough of iniquity, reeking with the stench 
of every form of immorality. Childlessness was pref¬ 
erable to parenthood and celibacy to marriage/’ 

His voice was low, but his face was set grimly. 

“See my point? Rome was childless. The barbari¬ 
ans began to press round about her and she was com¬ 
pelled to hire other barbarians, the Allemani, to guard 
her frontiers and repel the enemy. The Allemani were 
loath to withdraw once they obtained their foothold. 
Then began the final disintegration and destruction of 
the Western Empire. Rome had no more Romans left 
to fight her battles. With the frequency of divorce and 
the growth of luxury came childlessness and infanticide, 
and on the heels of these twin evils followed the grad¬ 
ual extinction of the native Roman stock and the de¬ 
population and downfall of the Empire. 1 ’ 

Toward the end of the week Bert was back in Wash¬ 
ington. Before he left the city, however, he had been 
pressed by the papers for an interview. Political rea¬ 
sons, he was advised, required that his name be kept 
before the public eye at this particular time. A state¬ 
ment was accordingly prepared, and the night before 
he departed from the city 7 the paper came out with an 
account of the Colman Resolution, and a picture of 
its sponsor. It was interesting to the people of Sheftord 
to know that their representative was reflecting credit 
on himself and his district. 


XVII 


J UNE was always the*splendid month of the year 
at West Shefford. Then the fields are greener, 
the flowers prettier, the air more fragrant. Like 
a soft velvet carpet the grassy meadows seemed to 
slope upwards and away to the fringe of distant hills, 
their remarkable uniformity broken only by the mean- 
derings of the silvery Pequabuck and the bunches of 
pea-green sweet grass protruding from its bristling 
sides. The mornings were more brilliant at this sea¬ 
son of the year, but one must rise early to view the sun¬ 
beams flinging their bright arms about the rim of hills 
that loomed, stately and serene and majestic over the 
landscape, or to see the soft blue sky opposite the rising 
sun folding the earth in gentle embrace. 

A dozen times in the course of the day Edith wan¬ 
dered to the end of the porch, where glass barred out 
the wintry blasts during the cold months of the year, 
but where now stood white screen doors with pretty 
glass knobs, and leaned her slender body against the 
corner pillar to get the freshness of the summer breeze 
as it descended from the hillsides, or to hearken to the 
ceaseless chatter of the birds, or view the silent wash¬ 
ing of the ripples against the banks and wish a thou¬ 
sand times that she, too, might drift away in the sleepy 
arms of the stream and be lost like it in the sea of 


226 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 227 

oblivion. There was a time when her soul was thrilled 
with the charms that nature had to offer and passion 
burned in her veins, but now—she was learning to hate 
it all. The world was no longer complete or beautiful. 
She had yielded strength and life and heart, and the 
wind of ennui had followed her and burned everything. 

She saw the splendid panorama of West Shefford 
opening out before her, the river, the meadows, the 
pasture lands, the winding road, the graceful hills— 
but she regarded it listlessly. She was thoroughly 
aware of the lavish splendor of her surroundings, the 
series of terraces, one below the other, leading down 
to the river bank by lengthy flights of concrete steps 
canopied with rambling roses; the well-kept walks and 
drives that ran around the house and gardens, and led 
off into secret recesses and sheltered bowers where you 
would least expect them—gorgeous gardens; a vast 
estate—but there was something exotic about it, some¬ 
thing aloof. There was a feeling she could not shake 
off, which told her these things did not belong to her. 
They were part of that vast structure that had been 
erected about her, but she was only enclosed by them- 
She had no dominion over them. If she was a Wheaton 
it was in name only. It was that that mattered, and 
blood and descent, not alliance or adoption. 

Two robins met on the lawn four feet away and be¬ 
gan to quarrel over a worm. Of all things birds were 
the most fascinating. She regarded them wistfully and 
envied their cheerful existence. They suffered no re¬ 
morse, no tantalizing memories, no restraint—these dis¬ 
putatious warblers. They were innocent and could give 


228 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


vent to their pure delight in joyous songs. They had 
never done wrong and knew not what sin w r as. What 
a privilege! 

Slowly she wandered back to the center of the porch, 
where were set the faded green chairs of Japanese 
grass, and fell into one of them. The evening paper 
had come, and she picked it up. The photograph of 
her first husband was reproduced on the first page, and 
it impressed her with a strange significance. 

She did not resent his success, as she thought she 
would. On the contrary, she was pleased with it. She 
sat down to read the account of his legislative measure 
with uncommon interest, thinking to herself how such 
a topic would have one time tired her. He was at¬ 
tempting to make divorce impossible! Doubtless he 
had learned a bitter lesson and hoped to save others 
from a similar catastrophe. She pictured him at work, 
poring over documents, reading volumes, smoking 
pipeful after pipeful of tobacco, and resenting savagely 
every intrusion and interruption. That was his way. 
When he set himself to the performance of any duty 
he was not satisfied until he had conquered all that gave 
him mastery. “Specific purpose,” he would say, “is 
what should direct all reading, observation, and inde¬ 
pendent thinking.” Then she used to fly out of the 
room. 

He no longer cared for her, she told herself. But 
he must still think of her! Yes, it was her hateful 
image that had stood before him while he was engaged 
in this w r ork, spurring him on to greater efforts. She 
had committed an unpardonable offense in deserting 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


229 


him as she did—she admitted that—but she expected 
no condoning of the crime. Still it was far from 
pleasant to consider that she was the proximate motive 
for this sort of legislation. What would people say? 
She wondered if he would cite his own case on the 
floor of the House. Terrible thought! 

The printed likeness was familiar. It was an old 
picture, taken just before they were married, when his 
face seemed very kind. The day she received it had 
been one of the happiest of her life. She thought so, 
then, she was not willing to deny it even now. He 
had not changed greatly. The eyes were the same, 
large and penetrating. His hair was still wavy. 
Cheeks a little fuller, perhaps. But there was that 
same mysterious air about him, so different from the 
ordinary countenance. It was this that had attracted 
her the day they met—because he was so unlike any 
one else with whom she was acquainted. He had 
never been demonstrative. In point of fact their court¬ 
ship was very commonplace to her now, much as it had 
tingled with romance then, and she w r ondered who really 
did the courting. During the first two years, the most 
important years in any wedded life, she had not quite 
understood him. Neither of them seemed to care to 
learn the traits of the other. There were certain little 
quips in his character that courtship had not revealed 
to her, and how surprised she was when they were first 
disclosed. But instead of trying to adapt herself to 
circumstances she was continually on guard and it was 
then that it occurred to her that they were hopelessly 
incompatible. 


I 


230 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

How well she recalled the occasion of their first 
quarrel! He had telephoned from the office one after¬ 
noon between five and six o’clock to the effect that he 
would be late for dinner. This exasperated her, for 
she had taken particular pains that day to have some¬ 
thing delectable and tempting. Now all was to go for 
nothing. The dinner would be cold when he arrived. 
He would be tired and would not care to eat. The 
dishes would be left standing. And so she complained 
that he wasted precious time during the day and that 
the evenings belonged to her. 

“Please don’t say that to me again,” he said. It 
was the first harsh reply he had ever made and it cut 
deeply. “I’ve been hustling all day trying to make ends 
meet, and you call me about wasting time!” 

And then he came home and sulked for the rest of 
the night. Neither of them were in the mood for din¬ 
ner. He spoke little, and ate little. That was his way. 
At that time she did not understand him. She took all 
these trifles seriously to heart and let them prey on her 
mind. She should have known then what she knew 
now—that such moods were but temporary and re¬ 
quired a little humoring to dispel them. But she was 
not the one to humor him—then. 

She had never bothered much with other men until 
she met Kelso, and he seemed to sweep her off her feet 
with his engaging manner and undivided attention. 
His temperament was quite the reverse of Bert’s, lively 
where he was dull, amiable where he was sullen, demon¬ 
strative where he was reserved. There was this differ- 
ience, however. Kelso wanted every woman he met to 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 231 

adore him. When he boasted of what he could do it was 
only for the purpose of exciting admiration. He was 
in his glory when he was being praised for his accom¬ 
plishments—a vanity he could not overcome—and did 
not try to. Women he courted to make them feel 
proud of his companionship. He had a passion for at¬ 
tention and he strutted and fretted for a kind word 
like a vain-glorious peacock. 

The object of her rumination appeared very sud¬ 
denly now in the doorway with Nestor by his side. She 
looked up at him, but did not smile. 

“Been out?” he asked carelessly. 

“No. I’ve been alone all day,” she replied, reach¬ 
ing to stroke the Airedale. 

“What’s the matter? Sick, or just another grouch?” 

“Neither. I’ve been enjoying myself here.” 

This was sarcasm, of course, but he let it pass. 

“Sitting here all day—alone! Enjoying yourself!” 
he mused aloud. “I should think you’d get interested 
in something—golf or tennis—or something!” 

She raised her eyebrows, and answered coolly: 

“Or solitaire!” 

“Oh, well!” he exclaimed with a shrug of the shoul¬ 
ders. He moved over to the rocker. Nestor, leaving 
Edith’s side, followed him. 

“I don’t know what’s come over you, Edith,” he 
said. “You complained of your old life because it kept 
you in the house from morning to night. Now when 
you have nothing to do but run around you seem to 
prefer the house. I suggested a few days at Atlantic 
City, thinking the change would help you, but—when 


232 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

I mentioned to Evelyn that she might arrange a little 
party with the Liggetts, you flew completely off the 
handle.” 

“Why shouldn’t I? What do you see in Betty Lig¬ 
gett, I would like to know? You can never content 
yourself for a month in your own home. Betty Lig¬ 
gett! That was all I heard while we were away. That 
feather-pate!” 

“She’s good company, isn’t she?” 

“She’s a married woman. That’s all I know—or 
care.” 

“Pooh! What difference does that make? You 
don’t suppose I have designs on her, do you?” 

“What am I to think?” 

“I don’t mean to hurt you. I hate hurting people. 
For the life of me I never thought you’d mind.” 

“It wasn’t that I cared. It was something else-” 

“What else?” 

“Nothing! Only that—I don’t count—I sup¬ 
pose-” 

“Nonsense! Of course you count. But you can’t 
expect me to snub everybody else. You see, don’t 
you?” 

His voice seemed to carry an accent of compunction 
as if he were truly sorry. It created in her a wish to 
laugh. To hide this she picked up the newspaper. 

“Have you seen this?” she asked, folding the sheet 
and passing it to him. 

“By Jove!” he muttered. “It does pay to adver¬ 
tise, doesn’t it?” 

She watched him as he glanced curiously at the story. 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 233 

He sat back in the chair lazily, one white leg crossed 
over the other. He was in white—trousers, socks, ox¬ 
fords, silk shirt—except his coat, which was of blue 
serge. His face was expressionless—she could not 
read his thoughts. His eyes, a little swollen, were 
masked behind their heavy lids. As he sat there he 
pulled at his short, stubby mustache. Then a faint 
smile crossed his face and his lips parted in a sneer. 

“Another Amendment! The Constitution will soon 
resemble a crazy quilt. How very outrageous are the 
sins committed in the sacred name of liberty! I don’t 
suppose the founders of the Republic ever dreamed of 
their descendants tampering with the ideals they risked 
so much to obtain. They shook off a king, but left the 
people fettered. England is the only country. The 
Eighteenth Amendment is a direct infringement on per¬ 
sonal liberty; the Nineteenth has taken away the free¬ 
dom of the male, and now this proposed Twentieth 
hints at limiting our choice in the selection of our mates. 
What a country!” 

She smiled at him. He was interesting when he at¬ 
tempted to become serious. 

“People will say he was driven to this,” he continued. 
“Do you mind?” 

“Why should I mind?” 

“They will link your name with his. Naturally they 
will say you drove him to it.” 

“Why should they say that?” 

“Well, you ran off and left him, didn’t you?” 

She looked at him coldly, and the color mounted to 
her eyes. 


234 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“You are a coward.” 

But he smiled in the indifferent way that was char¬ 
acteristic of him, and flicked the ashes from his 
cigarette. 

“Let me tell you this,” she said, “Robert Colman 
was a man, every inch of him. He had his faults, he 
was a slave to work, but one always knew where he 
stood. He didn’t share his attentions with forty dif¬ 
ferent women.” 

“You are just jealous now.” 

“Of whom? Those creatures that compose your 
set! So superior to all sensation! They have no blood. 
They do not know the meaning of sacrifice. They care 
only for the outside of things, the forms, the flesh-pots. 
They have no soul, no feelings, nothing. It is wicked 
to waste one’s life so. That is the society I am sup¬ 
posed to be jealous of?” 

“Still you were willing to share it with me.” 

“That w r as before I knew-” 

“Do you want to draw back?” 

“Never! I would die rather than admit defeat.” 

“But you are not happy here?” 

“I have never said as much.” 

A long silence then, with the shadows lengthening 
outside, the sun dropping to rest behind the fringe of 
distant hills, the brown hairy dog snoring at his master’s 
feet, and such a strange sense of stillness as to make 
both of them feel uncomfortable. At length Kelso 
spoke, in a low voice. 

“I have done my best to make you feel at home with 
us, Edith. There is nothing you are asked to do, and 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 235 

you are free as the wind to come and go. I placed 
a car at your disposal in order that you might make 
use of it any time of the day. You imagine you are 
not wanted here. The servants, you say, treat you with 
contempt. Even my dog you dislike because he does 
not follow you around the house. You will not mix 
w T ith my people. For the life of me I cannot under¬ 
stand what ails you, with no cares, no responsibilities, 

no children to bother with-” 

“Perhaps if we did have children-” 

“Now don’t start that again. You know my senti¬ 
ments there.” 

Nestor’s jaws snapped. A fly wandered too near 
hib nose and perished for its folly. There was silence 
then that w T as not broken. 

She was glad when he left. She was glad the homely 
dog went with him. Rising, she went to the end of 
the porch, opened the screen door, and stepped outside. 
The sun had dropped behind the hills, and the reddish 
tints flooding the western horizon were gradually dis¬ 
solving into purple and violet hues along the far-flung 
landscape. Slowly she began the descent of the terrace. 
She kept on until she came to the river. It seemed 
to her that there was nowhere she could go except 
among the birds and trees and fields, who did not mind 
if she was all mixed up and horrible inside. She sat 
down in the grass on the bank. She could see the tiny 
trout moving round and round the stones; swallows 
came, flying low. Two robins, mates no doubt, were 
filling the air with their thrilling lullabies and she en- 




236 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

vied their manifest happiness. These things did not 
interest her; it was as if her spirit were crushed. 

For she herself could not understand why she was 
not contented. What Kelso said was true: she had 
everything she could wish for, everything she had al¬ 
ways wished for. There was her maid to dress her, 
to serve breakfast in bed to her if she would have it. 
She was mistress of a great house and a member of 
the Country Club, where she could play golf, tennis, 
or bridge whenever she cared to. Kelso was devoted 
to her, even though he did love the company of his 
many friends, and her sisters-in-law were kind to her 
and considerate. Of course she would have given much 
for a child. This would have furnished her with some 
one to work for, to live for; but Kelso was opposed 
to having children. He could not be bothered with 
them. They cried all the time, or got sick or wanted 
attention. Besides it would tie both of them down 
too much, while he wanted them to be free to go and 
come whenever it pleased them to do so. 

There was the big house standing behind her on the 
brow of a hill like a feudal castle. Time was when 
she envied the lot of those who dwelt within such stout 
and splendid walls. To-night she scorned it. A caste 
system existed here, and she was a pariah whose touch 
contaminated, whose shadow defiled the members of 
that other class. Funny thing! Castes! Sets! They 
moved in circles, these Grundys—and she could never 
adapt herself to their sphere. They did things, but 
differently. They assumed superior airs. They thought 
and schemed and purposed as if the fate of empires 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 237 


hung on their actions. Sometimes she exerted herself 
to imitate them, but in the end she reverted to, her 
own type. Their superior airs overwhelmed her. 

It was the idle life she was leading that caused her 
the greatest torment. It was nothing but a round of 
entertainment and social duties. How often she longed 
to go into the kitchen to assist in the preparation of 
the meals! But this was out of the question. There 
w T ere many changes she would have liked to make in 
the house, but tradition forbade her interfering with 
established arrangements. She did not want a maid 
following her from room to room, or a chauffeur stand¬ 
ing by continually in response to her call. She would 
have preferred to take the car whenever she pleased, 
and drive away by her self to the stores as she saw so 
many young girls do. But this was not proper—not 
for a Wheaton—these were barriers that the conven¬ 
tions of society had reared about her personal freedom. 

If she had stayed there, looking for all time, she 
could not have graven on her heart a vision more in¬ 
delible. But dark was beginning to fall. The robins 
had grown quiet, the swallows had disappeared. 
Slowly she arose and made her way up the stone steps 
to the house, her heart heavy, her whole being chilled 
by the gusts of self-reproach that swept through her. 
It did not seem that this could be right. She was not 
rightfully married to this man—and yet here she was 
going into his house. Six months now! She had been 
happy for the first few days, or at least she thought 
she was. But she had been growing more and more 
wretched ever since. It was useless to say that her 


238 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


divorce was legal, and the second marriage valid as a 
consequence. She knew better. Her conscience told 
her so. What was worse, she could not get away 
from it. It pursued her like a Nemesis. What bitter¬ 
ness ! One slight slip from virtue and she had become 
miserable, more miserable in fact than she could have 
ever imagined she could be. No, it was not right! 
There was something about it that was intolerable. It 
was wicked! And there was no escape from it—save 
death. Yes, death might release her! 

Kelso awaited her on the porch smoking a fresh 
cigarette, the Airedale at his feet. He did not ask 
where she had been. She passed him coldly. Then 
she turned. 

“I am sorry, Kelso, but I had no desire for dinner. 
I spent the hour on the terrace." 

“Oh, well!” he said, and flicked the ashes from the 
burning cigarette. 


XVIII 




D R. D AH ILL opened the door of the waiting- 
room to admit the next patient, and to his ex¬ 
treme surprise saw the familiar form of Edith 
Wheaton seated near the window. She was alone. 
“Why . . . Mrs. Wheaton! . . . You!” 

She threw back her head as she stood up, but there 
was no scorn, no defiant flash under the dark-lashed 
lids. On the contrary her hazel eyes had a mischievous 
gleam and the turn of her head was friendly. But the 
sweetness of her face looked pathetic. 

“My dear doctor,” she began in the softest possible 
tone, extending her hand meanwhile. The surgeon 
bowed slightly over it, just touching the fingers with 
his own. 

“I am glad to see you, very glad,” he said. “If 
you were my own daughter you would not be more 
welcome. You are not ill, I hope!” 

“Oh, no!” she replied, decisively. A sudden step 
startled her and she looked around the room with a 
nervous glance. 

“I came to talk to you.” 

The doctor smiled. 

“But—not here-•” 

“Won’t you step into the office?” he suggested. 


239 



240 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


She nodded immediate acquiescence, and passed be¬ 
fore him into the adjoining room. 

“It was no easy matter for me to make up my mind 
to do this,” she said, taking the chair proffered her, 
“but really, there seemed no other avenue open to me. 
You are the only one that can help me.” 

Her voice floated, mysterious and penetrating, from 
lips that moved very little. The doctor watched her 
with sympathetic curiosity as he tried to anticipate her 
words. 

“You have but to ask.” 

“Thank you!” she said, fastening on him a keen 
glance. “I rather hoped you would say that. You 
are dependable, as you ever were, and I always felt 
I could turn to you when in need. It is so terrible 
to have to suffer—alone.” 

The last w r ord was murmured, which made the effect 
pitiable. 

kk To suffer is one of the noblest prerogatives of hu¬ 
man nature, is it not?” said the surgeon. 

“Yes, I know,” agreed Edith, absently. 

“And has it not been said that the uses of adversity 
are sweet, that the man who knows nothing of the 
novitiate of suffering has missed one of the best parts 
of human existence?” 

“I suppose so. It is a consoling doctrine, but wholly 
impracticable to me just at present. Too long have I 
feasted on ideals, until I learned to my sorrow that 
they do not belong to this world.” 

“The world is mismanaged, it is true. But who 
causes it? We ourselves are the dispensers of pleasure 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


241 


and pain. You cannot hope to escape misery so long 
as you choose to make your own bed. That is an old 
axiom. When the Roman emperors returned in tri¬ 
umph to receive the plaudits of the nation it was their 
custom to have a slave stand behind them to whisper 
in their ears the unwelcome but salutary truth that all 
men are mortal. You see, they wanted never to for- 
get it.” 

“I once thought that human happiness was of para¬ 
mount importance, and that whatever stood in the way 
of it ought to be removed-” 

“And you have learned to think differently?” 

“Yes!” 

The doctor forgot himself for a moment in watching 
her. Her face was still pretty, but less merry, as if 
hardened by grave thoughts. The words seemed to 
issue from a soul that had experienced bitterness, from 
one w r ho had been under a sort of spell. Yet there 
was something significant about them none the less, 
like the story of the life to which they belonged. 

“I sometimes think I have been guilty of a great 
folly,” she confessed sadly. 

The surgeon made no reply. 

“You don’t mind my saying that, do you? I feel 
relieved to unburden myself to somebody.” 

“I think I understand,” was the answ T er. “You may 
depend on me. What really happened was that the 
ideals you sought turned out to be chimeras.” 

“Yes! Horrible phantasms!” 

“Do you want to undo the past? Is it that you 
would ask of me?” 



242 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“No! That is impossible! There is something 
else.” 

“Your child?” 

She made no sign; but the doctor understood now. 

It was a pitiful tale she unfolded, of painful days, 
of acute suffering from a renewed sense of loneliness, 
of sleepless nights and wrestlings with horrible night¬ 
mares, of senseless and terrifying dreams and feelings 
of powerlessness in all her limbs. It was the maternal 
instinct striving after its own, but buried in a purgatory 
of hopeless longing and deprivation. Her soul was in 
revolt while she was dwelling like a lonely goddess on 
a charmed isle. Pitiful! But she could not avoid it, 
being a woman—and a mother. 

“Sometimes I seem to see her wanting to come to 
me, cold and hungry and crying as if her little heart 
would break. I know she wants me. I know it. And 
she never meant so much to me before. I would rather 
have her than all the wealth and tinsel that surround 
me. But you cannot feel what I mean. No one can 
—only a mother.” 

“I don’t know how Bert will take this,” Dr. Dahill 
said in his easy, equable way, “but I shall do as you 
ask. You want to take the child home with you; but 
do you understand that Barbara is dearer to him than 
life itself? When you ask him to part with her you 
ask a great deal.” 

“Yes, yes, I know. But I have a home, a beautiful 
home, where she shall have the best of everything. 
She shall be brought up well, educated . . .” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 243 

“In the religion of her father, of course!” the sur¬ 
geon interrupted. 

Edith’s lips compressed. Evidently she was not pre¬ 
pared for that question. Had she not sacrificed her 
religion with her divorce? It never occurred to her 
what the Wheatons might do in this matter. 

“I shall see to it myself,” she answered with empha¬ 
sis. “She shall not lose her religion.” 

“Are you sure of that? It is essential, you know.” 

She did not reply to this. 

“Then there is the question of custody.” 

“I do not ask for custody,” came back her ready 
answer. “I do not want to take Bab from him. No! 
No! He may retain custody of the child. I simply 
want her to live with me. I want to take care of her, 
to feel her near me, to see her every day, to dress 
her with my own hands. It is my heart that cries out 
for her, don’t you see? You do see, don’t you? I 
don’t want the law; I only want her.” 

“Sort of temporary arrangement, you mean! The 
order of the court will not be impaired.” 

“Not at all. I am sick and tired of courts. All 
I want is my poor Babs. He can still be the claimant, 
and if at any time I do not conduct myself to his satis¬ 
faction he is perfectly free to come and take the child 
from me.” 

The doctor considered. 

“I shall do as you ask,” he said after a moment’s 
pause. “But do not expect me to influence his decision, 
one way or the other. You know he never mentions 


244 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

your name. For that reason I do not know what he 
thinks.” 

“He never speaks of me!” she repeated. 

“Never!” 

“He loathes me, does he not? He must.” 

The surgeon shook his head. 

“No, I would not say that. That is putting it too 
strongly. But you know-" 

“Woman has no honor," she soliloquized. 

Silence. Then: 

“He thinks that of me. He must. It was I who 
wrecked our little vessel just as we were getting under 
way. It was awful. I feel like a murderess. But the 
tie that bound us was not a very close one." 

“Would you do it again?" 

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder how responsible 
we really are for what we do. Our paths appear to 
be marked out for us by some unseen power, and we 
follow whithersoever we are led." 

“You are turning fatalist?" 

“What is that? But don't you think life is only a 
series of betrayals? There are so many kinds of them. 
One can betray confidences, and hope, and friendship 
—and the most sacred-” 

It was easy for the doctor to see, however much she 
feigned obedience to and admiration for her second 
husband, that she was growing wean’ of her life, and 
melancholy over the ties which bound her against her 
better reason to this strange abode. If it were only 
possible for her to convince herself that she was not 
alone responsible for this condition of affairs, he could 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


245 


see that she would enjoy greater peace of mind. It 
was wrong to fly thus in the face of God, but to deny 
His share in it was comforting and a means of escape 
from greater responsibilities. 

“You cannot be happy in your present state,” he re¬ 
minded her. It was an impertinent remark, but he 
felt justified in making it in view of the confidence 
already disclosed. 

“I think I can—with Bab.” 

“We shall see.” 

“You will do this for me?” she asked expectantly. 

“Yes. To-night!” 

“Thank you. It means so much to have you say 
that.” 

Long after she had gone he sat there thinking. A 
great revelation this! For her, Edith Wheaton, erst¬ 
while wife of his friend Bert Colman, to bend her 
proud spirit and come to him was marvelous. But he 
could not rejoice over it; on the contrary his great 
heart ached when he thought of the woman he was 
wont to esteem, and the look of mournful anguish on 
her face now. The half hour’s interview permitted 
him to come in contact with her in a new manner, as 
if they had some common viewpoint. It was bet¬ 
ter that she should have come to him as she did with¬ 
out fear of humiliation, if he was to be of sendee to 
her. Fie wanted her to feel that way. There were 
a score of reasons w*hy he should. 

To love children was an instinct with him, so much 
so that he thought almost with a sort of shame of the 
softness into which it betrayed him. He could not 


246 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

refuse this mother’s request. While the heartbroken 
woman was unfolding her tale of mental anguish, the 
image of the lovely little girl with her fair tresses 
falling in endless confusion over her baby face, was 
impressed upon him and remained fixed in his memory 
long after Edith had gone. Institution life of any kind 
terrorized him. It was a great mechanical process into 
which children were fitted like so many cogs in some 
great wheel turning slowly round and round. No one 
could ever hope to expect individual attention from 
such an instrument, from the unvarying schedule that 
shaped the course of life, and stifled every attempt at 
individual effort or expansion. Bells called them in the 
morning, bells summoned them to eat, bells sent them 
to play, bells hurried them off to bed. Bells, bells, bells 
—all the time! Not much room here for development 
of personal temperament or culture of those personal 
qualities which go to make up character. 

All this he saw in his own mind during the few 
moments that intervened between Edith’s departure 
from his office, and his summoning of the next patient 
to take her place. There she went, to her splendid 
home with its rich appointments, to the indispensable 
servants awaiting her—and he thought of Bab, precious 
Babs, brought up in the midst of this atmosphere of 
culture and refinement, with her mother to lead her 
by the hand through it all. The child needed its 
mother. That was absolute ! The natural law required 
it. Little secrets must be whispered into its ear, 
advantageous counsels must be given, private confi¬ 
dences exchanged. Heads of vast institutions cannot 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 247 

do this work. The child’s place is beside the mother’s 
knee, if the mother is at all worthy. And Edith, it 
seemed, was desirous of performing this duty, for she 
felt she would never realize happiness and contentment 
until she was actually fulfilling the obligations she knew 
she owed as mother to her own flesh and blood. 

So great indeed was his attachment for Babs that to 
spare her a grief or to do her a service, and such a 
service as would probably influence her whole life, he 
w r ould run barefoot a score of miles. He decided to 
write that very night to Bert to acquaint him with 
Edith’s proposal. But he would take no sides. When 
a master and a mistress are at strife in a house it is 
better for the friend to divide his sympathies. Be¬ 
sides, it was meet that the present condition of the child 
be given some consideration. She would naturally pre¬ 
fer to be with her mother. Later, when she was a 
full-grown woman she could exercise her powers of 
choice. 

So he wrote that very night. 

The following Thursday Bert Colman came home. 
It was after ten o’clock. The surgeon was not sur¬ 
prised to see him, for he had inferred that he would. 
Indeed he was expecting him to descend upon him at 
any time, breathless and excited, wondering what had 
happened. The note carried few details; the doctor 
never wrote lengthy letters. 

“You got my note?” he said to him. 

“This morning.” 

“And then you rushed to get the first train?” 

“Of course!” 


248 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Just like you! I expected you to-night. You came 
from the Academy.” 

“You saw me?” 

“No! I know you.” 

They sat down and lighted cigars. This was cus¬ 
tomary. It seemed they could not talk, nor even think, 
without smoking. Soon the room w r ould be foggy but 
they w r ould not notice it. Men seldom do. 

“What did Edith have to say?” Bert asked. “Rather 
surprising, this change of heart!” 

“You would pity her. She is not the Edith of old. 
More restrained; more sober; more solemn! How 
long she waited I do not know T , but she v r as the last 
person in the world I expected to see. Nervous and 
diffident, too; and the end of our interview found her 
but little more cheerful. I think she regrets a thou¬ 
sand times.” 

“She said that, did she?” 

“Not Edith! You know her proud spirit is indomit¬ 
able. She is of the sort that die ere they acknowledge 
defeat. Still, she is not altogether happy.” 

“Indeed!” 

This interested him. She was not happy! He 
wondered if she w r as finding this other man as incom¬ 
patible as he had been. Or more so! 

“She inquired for you.” 

“In wffiat w r ords?” 

“Well, she w r anted to know all about your great 
success in Washington. I told her as much as I could, 
which greatly interested her. She remarked about the 
cut that appeared in the newspapers, adding, with a 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


249 


smile, that she had the unique honor of being the in¬ 
spiration for the whole project.” 

Bert smiled, too. 

u She then asked if you despised her. I thought this 
remarkable, coming from her.” 

“And you told her-•” 

“That you could not despise anybody—adding that 
she herself ought to be the first to know it.” 

Silence ! Puffs and smoke! 

“She longs for the child, Bert. It was touching to 
listen to her pleadings. I honestly believe she cannot 
live without her; not for long. It preys on her. You 
know there is something in a woman that we cannot 
understand; a peculiar instinct. A mother has affinity 
for her own even after death. It is natural and indi¬ 
vidual. Even the common house cat possesses the 
maternal instinct. And the hen, even when she hatches 
ducklings.” 

More puffs! More smoke! 

“You could not have sat here and listened to her. 
It was a passion, I tell you, and you would have found 
it in your heart to feel sorry for her. I know this 
seems childish to you, but youdl understand.” 

Bert accepted this thoughtfully. It was amazing. 
A fleeting thing like sentiment seduced his heart. It 
w T as not the thought of self—or of her. It was Bab! 
He wanted to make Bab happy. “How easily might 
this man be moved to great things,” the doctor thought 
to himself. “More the pity Edith never understood 
him!” 



250 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Bab wants her mother,” he said now to the 
surgeon. 

“Indeed! She told you?” 

“Yes. It has caused her great concern, has filled 
her with hopes. Her mother was to see her this morn¬ 
ing, and I was told the poor child cried her eyes out 
to be taken home. She told me of the number of 
pretty things she would have. I don’t know what to 
do. I learned, too, that Edith has already paid several 
visits to the Academy.” 

“That is not surprising.” 

“And the little girl has undergone a great change 
of heart and spirit. The minute she ran in to me I 
discovered it and I marveled at it—without anger, you 
understand, but not without wonder. Something must 
have passed between them, a whisper, a caress, a spark 
of mother’s love as the poets would say—something. 
Whatever it was, it has awakened a sincere passion 
in the soul of my little girl, and I felt it in my heart, 
just as you said, to be truly sorry for her.” 

“She will be benefited, you think? Now is the time, 
you know, to judge this proposition from every angle, 
not after you have given your consent.” 

“The child will be benefited, yes! I firmly believe 
that children should remain with the mother. It is 
socialistic to commit the offspring to an institution. It 
robs the child of its individuality. Of course, I would 
dislike very much to have the child raised a Wheaton, 
and it may happen that she will grow up to hate me 
—but no matter. She needs a mother’s care, and love.” 

“You will let her go?” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 251 

“If I can make some sort of temporary arrangement. 
The custody must not be impaired.” 

“Shall I communicate with her—or-?” 

“I wish you would. I would not care to see her 
myself. Not just now.” 

More puffs! More smoke! . . . Puffs! 



XIX 


T HIS show of friendly interest on the part of 
Dr. Dahill inspired Edith to hope for gladder 
days. The eager anticipation made her light¬ 
hearted, mirthful, care-free, and her hazel eyes, usually 
grave and thoughtful, now flashed with restless inten¬ 
sity and merriment. From room to room she fluttered 
like a joyous song-bird, humming soft melodies and 
snatches from light operettas. She sat before the piano 
and built bridges to dreamland from her playing, some¬ 
what after the manner of the musing organist. It was 
not that she felt like playing; it was pure joy; the 
sustaining powers of melody to cheer her soul. 

Yesterday, literally speaking, she had been living in 
a dull, uninteresting world, with no stimulus to excite 
her to action, or to effect a transformation in the stupid 
monotony of her life. The unsatisfactory character of 
her employments had created within her a vague, 
questioning dissatisfaction. She was longing for happi¬ 
ness, but her longings only mocked her. She tried to 
laugh for joy, but strange, raucous sounds reverberated 
in her throat. It was a weary, stale, and unprofitable 
world she had been graduated into, with all the potency, 
spirit and heat of living extracted from it. But to-day 
all was changed—the world lay smiling before her. 
It was as if an act of delicious magic had transformed 


252 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 253 

her into a new being, who greatly rejoiced in the mere 
pleasure of living. 

The while she played she grew satirical with herself, 
musing with abstract pleasure on her recent discoveries. 
Where, for example, were those very wondrous bodies 
which were supposed to revolve about that great, lumi¬ 
nous sun? And where was that equally famous social 
pyramid, topped off by the more famous social 
leader, whose mere acquaintanceship promised so much 
prestige? To learn that that vast company to which 
she had aspired for membership, was built on poor 
pretense and sham was a disappointing process even 
if it were an invaluable experience. She had believed 
absolutely in the smart magazines, the sections of the 
Sunday newspapers. They had colored her imagination 
with the portraits of the most notorious of an exclusive 
gentry, who dwelt in marble mansions on the finest 
thoroughfares of the largest cities, where they enter¬ 
tained in the most stupendous manner possible the 
foreign princes, and military and political leaders who 
came to this country after the war. Their daughters 
were being married into the foreign nobility, their 
young matrons were carrying off coveted prizes at the 
annual Dog and Horse Shows. Their men-folk were 
distinguished for the number and kind of ponies they 
rode at polo games, for the distinctive appearance and 
quality of their motor cars, for membership in the 
Century, Union League, University or Metropolitan 
Clubs. These people usually met at the Ritz at hun- 
dred-thousand-dollar balls; imported priceless gems 
from Europe, and wore them about their necks; sup- 


254 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

ported magnificent white yachts, and spent their winters 
cruising about the Caribbean; took active part in 
amateur theatricals and gayly costumed tableaus for 
smart charities, or for the benefit of the milk fund or 
the French orphans. They did all these things in the 
newspapers. But where were they in real life? She 
had not met any of them either at Palm Beach, or at 
the New York Clubs, or on the streets. Insofar as 
she was concerned they were mere mythical beings, 
whose social superiority depended upon the amount of 
sensational advertising they managed to obtain. There 
was no social leader, there were ten thousand of them 
right in New York. There was no social structure, 
it was erected around every club, ball-room, and church 
in the land. There was no background necessary for 
social success, unless, perhaps, an imported and danger¬ 
ously daring evening gown. 

She had been chasing glittering rainbows after a pot 
of gold that never existed. Yet even the attempt to 
rise to these dizzy heights had brought snatches of 
clear, invigorating air. This compensated for the loss 
of her blasted ambitions. Her brain was no longer 
befogged. Pausing to collect her thoughts her nimble 
fingers wandered swiftly over the keys. They were 
playing an air from Lammermoor. Poor Lucia! She 
felt she could pity her—for she was in a position to 
understand. 

Suddenly an expression of acute pain tightened her 
mouth. Six months ago she had been inimitably gay. 
The world, laughing, held out its sunny arms and wel¬ 
comed her to its brilliant bosom. And then! . . . She 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 255 

met the people of Kelso’s set. They snubbed her. 
Shefford folks were unmistakably cold, distant, self- 
sufficient as a rule, and she had scarcely ever hoped for 
more than a passive reception. But she had never 
expected to be snubbed. The company she met later 
at Palm Beach were different. An artificial and exotic 
atmosphere enveloped whatever they did or said. Even 
the Wheatons failed her when it came to the question 
of social attainments. They counted few friends in 
either New York or Florida, and insofar as Shefford 
was concerned they were an isolated quantity. People 
knew them, of course; but they lived in a world of 
their own. She sneered. The little she had she risked 
to become a Wheaton, and now for the life of her she 
could not see how she had profited by the exchange. 

Even Kelso w T as—queer. Not bad exactly, or loose, 
but just—queer. She understood, however, that she 
could not have him immeasurably fine; she must accept 
him as he was, the defects as well as virtues that were 
his. His manner of living was above reproach, she 
was sure of that; but it was his temperament, quick, 
superficial, changeable. From some points of view he 
was charming. He rejoiced in life, was jovial, un¬ 
selfish, overflowed with wit and humor; but he was 
too impressionable, too inconsistent. His heart took 
its tempo from its surroundings. Susceptible to every 
influence, it was easily excited by the affections it en¬ 
countered, abandoning itself to them with intense ardor, 
or becoming passionately attached to them through 
sympathy or generosity. The oaths of fidelity he swore 


256 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

to-day, would be sworn away again to-morrow. Queer! 
And fickle! 

Consequently, life meant nothing to her now without 
her precious Babs. Not once, but hundreds of times 
during the past month, had this idea recurred to her, 
and each time with increasing importance. It was in¬ 
tolerable, this longing! Her own flesh and blood! 
She had sinned in the eyes of God and against her 
innocent little girl; there could be no forgiveness for 
her crime either in this world or the next. Grief, a 
torturing grief gnawed into the very vitals of her soul, 
reminding her of the love that had once abided there 
but long since destroyed by rebellious forces. She had 
erred in not knowing the correspondence of love with 
duty. Why, she thought to herself, the world is made 
up of people doing their duty! What would become 
of it if there weren’t? Strange that that had never 
occurred to her before. It was her selfishness that 
began all her misfortunes, and she feared it would 
be the end of them and her together. 

“O sole mio . . .” 

Now it was the Neapolitan love song. Idly she let 
herself drift into the melody, her mind obscured by 
a vision which made the room swim about her, uncon¬ 
scious of the presence of any other person save herself. 

k T was wondering—you haven't been out to-day— 
if you would care to take a short ride?” 

Evelyn’s contralto voice broke in upon her. It made 
Edith rise abruptly. 

“I'd love to,” she replied; then hesitated. “Just 
you and I?” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 257 

“Yes. We’ll take the limousine. It’s so much 

• > } 
nicer. 

Evelyn began the conversation by saying she wanted 
to get Edith away from the house because she looked 
so lonesome. Lately she had not been like her old self 
at all. There was something on her mind, causing her 
worry, and she demanded to know what it was. 

‘‘Nothing, really,” replied Edith. “What made you 
suppose I was bothered? I was just thinking—about 
things.” 

“What are they? What were you thinking about?” 

“It would take years to tell.” 

“I wish . . . you might. It concerns both of us, in 
a way.” 

Edith did not answer at once, not because she did 
not w r ant to confide in her sister-in-law, whose kindly 
interest was at this particular time most welcome, but 
for want of knowing exactly what she desired to say. 
It was one thing to be buried in profound meditation; 
to put that meditation into words was quite another. 

“Did not Kelso ask you to go with him?” Evelyn 
inquired unexpectedly. 

“Yes. He wanted me to go.” 

“And you refused?” 

“Yes! He was bound to call on the Liggetts, even 
though he took the trouble to explain to me that he 
was going to New York on business. He had a letter 
from Betty Liggett during the week. Do you think I 
could go into that house—and act with composure? 
They ought to be glad; I suppose they are.” 

In the closed car, faintly scented with the perfume 


258 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

of freshly cut rose-buds, neither of them looked at each 
other. They seemed intent on the landscape—yet none 
of the two saw any of its details. 

“Kelso is—odd at times,” his indulgent sister ob¬ 
served. “But what has happened may be necessary, 
you know. Business reasons! You know he has been 
playing the market of late in anticipation of a revival 
in the industrial situation, and he always does his trad¬ 
ing in New York. It protects him.” 

“I have no objections to his going to New York. 
But I know he sees that woman whenever he goes there. 
He tells me they are good sports and he likes to go 
there simply to pass away the time. They go to the 
theater and to the Rendezvous, very likely. I suppose 
I am to be congratulated on keeping out of their way. 
But, really, it does make me feel the least bit uncom¬ 
fortable to have to realize that I am not wanted. What 
is there about these men that makes them so restless? 
I wish I didn’t show that I cared so much. If I only 
kept him guessing more it would keep him interested 
to the extent of knowing just how sure he was of me. 
That seems queer, I know—to have to mask your senti¬ 
ments to keep your husband interested and happy. It 
amounts to that, doesn’t it?” 

“It does seem so,” Evelyn returned peaceably. 
“Still Betty Liggett manages to keep her husband in¬ 
terested-” 

“Other husbands, too,” came the cynical rejoinder. 

“You are too hard on Kelso, my dear.” Her man¬ 
ner grew indignant. “Some women are altogether too 
horrid with their husbands. They treat them like male- 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 259 

factors. I heard some of them discussing at tea the 
other day how they held their husband’s affections. It 
was sickening! They are jealous of every good-looking 
woman they meet and treat her as a dangerous enemy. 
I told them they did not even trust the men they were 
married to.” 

“With reason, perhaps,” ejaculated Edith. 

“We are all sentimentalists in practice. Emotions 
don’t, as a rule, last long. What harm can come from 
mixing with one another in a friendly manner? Hus¬ 
bands and wives are faithful to each other for all that.” 

“Yes, habit holds many of us together, and conveni¬ 
ence and the opinion of society.” 

“And affection.” 

“That is the ideal, of course. With it sacrifice, self- 
denial and unsparing effort are possible. Without it 
there is no really happy marriage.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t expect a man and woman to 
live together without disagreeing about some things. 
You know it is said that women must have the last 
word. I believe, however, a wife is happier under the 
control of her husband. Women were never meant to 
rule.” 

“I don’t agree with you,” Edith replied. 

“Yes, you do. You despise a weak man as much 
as I; and you admire the strong and athletic, the giants. 
It makes you happy to have big men talk over with 
you the schemes that occupy their minds. Not long 
ago I was at the Knickerbocker. At a near-by table 
was a party. One of these so-called flappers was seated 
beside a middle-aged man, a man of consequence evi- 


26 o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


dently. Suddenly I overheard her exclaim, ‘Good 
heavens! They told me you had brains. You must 
have, I suppose. What do you do with them? Do 
you park them outside?’ You see with all their faults, 
the flappers are not so silly as they look. They want 
to talk sense; they are not interested in tea-hounds, 
those with their clothes as loose as ashes, except their 
vests and these so tight. The modern girl wants to 
be treated as if she had some intelligence; she wants 
to talk sensible stuff like politics, or business, new dis¬ 
coveries. She looks up to men who are superior to 
her in intelligence and age, and she wants them to 
share their wisdom with her. That’s why no man 
interests the modern young girl until he has passed 
thirty-five, and not then, if he hasn’t something to show 
for the time he’s spent in the world.” 

“That’s the flapper’s side of it,” Edith interposed. 
“It sounds wild enough.” 

“The wilder the better,” Evelyn answered. “If it’s 
not radical it’s nothing.” 

Edith shook her head and sighed. Her face had 
grown as somber as a mask. Waiting a few moments, 
she cleared her throat and said: 

“Evelyn, you wanted to know what was on my mind. 
Shall I tell you? I must ask your advice first—and I 
suppose I might add I want your permission as well. 
It’s about my little girl.” 

“Bab!” Evelyn exclaimed. “I thought she was at 
the Academy.” 

“So she is. You know I have been to see her several 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 261 


times lately. Every time I leave there I am sick at 
heart. It seems that I cannot live without her.” 

“Isn’t she getting along well?” 

“Splendidly! It isn’t that. I want her with me.” 

“Didn’t the court ... I mean . . . she belongs to 
Mr. Colman by right ... ?” 

“Yes, I guess so. But she is still my daughter. You 
don’t know what it is to have a child and to live to 
see her taken from you. There is nothing more ter¬ 
rible.” 

“But if she is well cared for, as you say she is, I 
should think you would be happy in the knowledge that 
everything has been arranged for her best interests.” 

“That is true. But no institution can replace a 
mother. Lately I seem to feel that I need her more 
than she needs me. I want to take her.” 

“To live with us?” 

“You would not object, would you? Or do you 
think Kelso would mind? I am sure he would not.” 

“What does Mr. Colman say?” 

An expression of unconcealed joy spread across 
Edith’s face. This was a happy announcement she was 
about to make. But when she turned to her, a flood 
of speech on her lips, she suddenly suppressed it. 
Evelyn’s face wore a troubled look. 

“You don’t approve . . . you don’t ... ?” 

“I am wondering just what Mr. Colman thinks, that 
is all,” was the cryptic comment. 

“Well, he approves. He was big enough to rise to 
the occasion. Some time ago I conferred with Dr. 
Dahill, a very dear friend of Mr. Colman’s who prom- 


262 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


ised to take the matter up with him and report back 
to me. To-day I received word that Mr. Colman has 
agreed to it, as a temporary arrangement. It was so 
like him, not to think of himself. Do you know I 
have often thought how tragic it was for him to be 
unlovable and at the same time be quite unconscious 
of it. He was always good and kind to me, but it 
w T as not my fault if I felt no attraction for him. It 
was that which mattered, and no amount of pity, or 
reason, or duty could ever overcome that repulsion. 
This giving me back the child is another instance of 
his magnanimity.” 

‘‘But have you considered Kelso? He should be 
the very first to be consulted in a case like this. You 
have not been very tactful, Edith." 

“Surely he will not object-” 

“And why not? You know he is not particularly 
fond of children-—and when she is not his own—he 
has some self-respect left, I am sure.” 

“Do you mean to say he would sacrifice his self- 
respect to any extent by permitting my own child to 
come and live with us?” 

“I don’t know. You had better ask him yourself.” 

“It seems very odd, indeed, if I cannot have my 
own way about this. It is my child. I want her, and 
am willing to share what I have with her.” 

“But you seem to forget that you are asking us to 
share what we have as well. ... It is not your own 
house that you are bringing her to. It is we who will 
be expected to support her. Naturally, you will be tied 
down some—your activities will be handicapped.” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 263 


“I am perfectly willing they should be. For the 
most part they sicken me. I should be happy to have 
more of my time to myself.” 

“Again you consider only yourself, my dear. It is 
you—you—all the time. But don’t you see that you 
are forcing Kelso into this preposterous bargain? 
Ultimately you are encroaching on his time, too. He 
can’t very well run off and leave his wife alone with 
her child all the time.” 

“He does it now, doesn’t he?” 

“Very seldom; and you resent it vehemently.” 

“I shan’t mind then—when I have her.” 

“Listen, Edith. Don’t underestimate yourself. You 
will not be contented then, either. When you have 
what you now want it will amuse you for a time; but 
you will be subject to the same desperate depression and 
to the same sharp fits of sadness as you always have. 
They are natural to you. Every feeling of discomfort 
you experience seems to you a serious evil; you reckon 
the remotest consequences; you credit apparent over¬ 
sights, silly speeches, and proceedings that are quite in¬ 
different with a meaning they do not possess. Now 
you have set your heart on having that child because 
you have persuaded yourself we are persecuting you. 
When she is with you for no great length of time you 
will be wishing she was back again at the Academy.” 

“That is not so. I did wrong, I’ll admit, in leaving 
my husband; but I was a criminal to abandon my inno¬ 
cent child. God will never forgive me for that. My 
folly is sadly apparent now, and if I can repair in any 
w’ay the injury I have caused her, the rest of my life 


264 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

will not be lived in vain. It is the mother inside of me 
that is crying out for its own. She is mine and no one 
can keep me from her.” 

“Suppose you consult Kelso first!” 

“Why put that above all else?” 

Other cars passed them, swift and soundless, which 
made them realize they were on the main thoroughfare 
leading home. Silence fell between them. In another 
minute they would turn into the drivew r ay with homely 
Nestor coming to greet them. 

“I am glad I came out,” Edith commented as she 
made to rise. “It has helped me a lot.” 

“I am glad, too,” Evelyn returned. 

The car stood waiting on their pleasure in the 
porte-cochere. 

That night Edith did not sleep very well. The 
severe castigation she had received that afternoon cut 
into her tender skin like the thongs of a whip-cord. 
Never before had any one addressed her in that man¬ 
ner. “Fits of sadness! Never contented! Desperate 
depression!” It w r as humiliating to have to listen to 
this incisive portrayal, and the haunting memory of it 
left her perturbed. She lay flat on her back, staring at 
the ceiling, listening to the violence of her heart throbs. 
The bed seemed to jump with every pulsation. She 
could not sleep, for emotion choked in her throat and 
suffocated her. 

The wave of suffering passed quickly, followed by a 
state of mental doubt, and this helped drive aw r ay the 
feeling of pessimism into which she had fallen. Each 
succeeding thought formed a larger area of hope. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 265 

After all, she concluded, Evelyn was not incorrect in 
her analysis—she was a malcontent. But she had never 
quite apprehended her true weakness before. Instabil¬ 
ity ! That was it. It was her will that was at fault. 
Her hopes of self-conquest had always been illusory, 
simply because she had not brought her will under sub¬ 
jection. How many had bridled their evil inclinations 
and turned their impetuous energies toward good! 
How many had mastered themselves and protected 
their souls from passions that would have seduced 
them! They had regulated their wills. Evelyn had 
performed a real service in removing the veil of self- 
delusion that had covered her, but she felt that she 
could hate her for her impertinence. 

But she was wrong about the child—all wrong. She 
did not know the extent of a mother’s love. She had 
never experienced these vibrating emotions, sudden and 
piercing, or the maddening desire for her own. A 
mother’s heart is always with her children, the proverb 
has it. There is nothing in life, no throe of passion or 
gratification comparable to the cravings of the maternal 
instinct. Evelyn was w r rong. She did not understand. 

“A preposterous bargain!” She called it that. Evi¬ 
dently she did not relish the idea of having Robert 
Colman’s child brought into the Wheaton home. And 
there was something odd in the manner in which she 
avoided all reference to her own personal opinion. 
“Consult Kelso,” that was all. As if Kelso would ven¬ 
ture an opinion. Consult Kelso ! Well, she would con¬ 
sult him—in the morning when he got Dack from New 
York—and the Liggetts. 


266 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


Kelso's answer was a direct refusal. She couldn’t 
believe her ears. It was brutal—it was inhuman. But 
he was indomitably opposed to any such scheme. 

“But, Kelso," she pleaded, “she is my child. She 
needs me.” 

“Isn’t she well taken care of? If you need 

money-” 

“Oh, it isn’t that.” 

“She would be in the way-” 

“It isn’t necessary to repeat that,” she reminded him. 

“You won’t have to notice her-” 

“No!” The monosyllable was granite-like. 

The flood of hysterical tears burst so suddenly that 
he was unprepared, overwhelmed. Turning, he 
shrugged his shoulders, buried his hands deep in his 
trousers’ pockets, and made a hurried retreat from the 
room. 





XX 


nHE following week the Liggetts arrived. 

“I had to invite them/* Kelso explained, 
knowing that he had to warn her of the impend¬ 
ing visit. It would never do for them to come un¬ 
announced. 

“Yes,” Edith agreed listlessly. “They have been 
good to you.'' 

“Yes. So I suggested that they run up for a couple 
of days.” 

“That was thoughtful. They appreciated it, I am 
sure.” 

“Old Liggett is a capital sport—when you get to 
know him. Dry sense of humor, and all that. Likes 
to get away from New York. ‘The melting pot,’ he 
calls it.” 

“How long has he to live? The last time I saw him 
I thought he was very ill.” 

“Oh, he has picked up wonderfully. Got a new 
lease on life.” 

“Indeed! Nice, isn’t it?” 

She yawned, holding the magazine she was perusing 
over her mouth. From over the top of it she stole a 
glance at him. He appeared to be nervous. 

“What did you do all the time you were in New 
York?” she asked. 


26 7 



268 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Had a good deal of business to attend to. You 
know I do not care to trade in Shefford. Too many 
garrulous clerks around the offices. First thing you 
know everybody in town is saying that you’re playing 
the market.” 

“Did you go to the theater?” 

“Oh, yes! Twice.” 

“The three of you?” 

“Henry w T ent the first night. Does not care for 
musical comedy; we had decided on that for the next.” 

“You took Mrs. Liggett; and to dinner afterwards?” 

“Not to dinner. We dropped around to the Jardin 
des Plantes. There was a good show there.” 

“Danced, of course?” 

“Yes.” 

“Until two or three o’clock?” 

He grew impatient. “Good heavens!” he cried, 
“what ails you? You sit there and question me as if I 
were a school-boy, and all because I happened to spend 
a couple of days with two nice people who have been 
very kind to me.” 

“Do you have to emphasize the fact that they are 
nice people?” She did not raise her eyes from the 
magazine, the pages of which she was now idly turning. 

“I suppose that is meant for a sneer! If it is I 
want to tell you that it doesn’t make any impression on 
me. When I cannot receive the attentions I want from 
those at home I am sensible enough not to worry about 
it. I go elsewhere.” 

“That is a weakness of yours. You want to be pam¬ 
pered.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 269 

“Let’s not call it a weakness. It’s just my unfortu¬ 
nate disposition.” 

It was evident that he meant to be sarcastic. There 
was a glint, too, in his eye which she caught, but did 
not understand. 

“Perhaps you are different with your friends; with 
them there is nothing to hide, nothing to-” 

“Hide!” he cried. “I have nothing to hide. It 
makes no difference to me whether you know what I 
do or not. I do things because they please me, that 
is all, and I am not asking pardon for anything.” 

“Your self-satisfaction amuses me,” she said mock¬ 
ingly. “You are so sure of yourself, so thoroughly 
content. What if, some day, one of these dear friends 
of yours falls in love with you?” 

“That would hardly be possible—with you around.” 

She looked at him, this time curiously. Really, he 
might be interesting if she were not his wife! 

“I suppose it would make no difference if I protested 
against your going to see this woman?” 

“None in the least.” 

“How do you know what I will take into my head 
to do?” 

“What can you do? I tell you it is none of your 
business what I do or whom I see.” 

“Indeed!” 

“And if I choose to invite guests to this house I 
don’t want you sitting around like a mummy before 
them. You will be expected to welcome them and to 
entertain them.” 

She made as if to rise, and by a violent effort sup- 



270 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


pressed her emotion. It would never do to let him see 
her upset. 

“I wonder if you think I have no mind of my own, 
or that I am going to put up with this sort of nonsense 
forever,” she said, quietly. “I have stood a good deal 
from you, but there are some things I cannot stand. I 
have done my duty. I am content with what you have 
to offer me. I don’t go around seeking the favor of 
forty different men or their society; in fact I would 
prefer to stay right here at home, rather than travel 
from pillar to post about the country. But remember 
this: if you have any hope of ultimately bringing that 
woman into this house I shall balk your plans. You’re 
not going to get rid of me as easily as you suppose.” 

“Pooh!” he retorted. “Who wants to get rid of 
you? You seem to think that I am anxious to run off 
with every woman I meet.” His self-restraint was fast 
vanishing. Nervously his fingers beat a sharp staccato 
on the arm of the chair, the shoe of his crossed leg 
quivered, the corners of his mouth twitched. Edith 
saw his passion, and rose before it grew ungovernable. 

“I shan’t go on with this any longer. You are not 
yourself.” 

And she left him to await alone the coming of 
the Liggetts. 

Some time later they arrived. 

Edith heard the big machine snorting and pulling 
into the driveway, but she did not come down to meet 
them. Only when the dinner chime was sounded did 
she quit her room. The guests were in the large recep¬ 
tion room, with the Wheatons, when she descended the 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 271 

stairs, and they tarried for another moment to await 
her coming. Going straight to Mrs. Liggett she took 
her hand and greeted her, but she did not welcome her 
to Westlawn. Then she turned to Mr. Liggett. For 
him she had a welcoming smile. 

At table she took her customary place and assisted 
with the service. The Liggetts were on her left, 
Evelyn and Doris opposite them. She could not help 
noticing how dangerously charming this splendidly at¬ 
tired woman was, with her vivid green dress, jeweled 
fingers and black beads and ear-rings. Color was not 
wanting, either; her face wore just a suggestion of 
pink, a little less than rose, but a little more than violet, 
that was perfectly adapted to her brunette type. No 
younger woman could compete with her in her seductive 
attractiveness. 

The conversation, which revolved about New York, 
sounded to Edith like a senseless clatter of words and 
unendurable laughter. A new statue was being erected 
in City Hall Park that was causing a spirited contro¬ 
versy. The midnight restaurants had lately adopted a 
new regulation requiring gentlemen to be attired in eve¬ 
ning clothes. Mrs. Liggett approved of this on the 
ground that it would keep the undesirable element out, 
but Kelso did not seem to think so well of it. There 
were times, he thought, when a man might find it very 
inconvenient to be in correct attire. Lie would find it 
unpleasant to try to effect an entrance in a business 
suit if the regulation was permitted to stand. 

“You do not care for New York?” 

Mr. Liggett was addressing his remark to Edith. 


272 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


She laughed, non-committally: “Oh, yes, I do. At 
times.” 

“We never see you.” 

“But you will—some day.” 

“A beastly place in summer,” he commented. “No 
air on streets. Too far overhead.” 

“The subway is always cool,” Edith replied. 

“I don’t know when we have ridden in the subway,” 
Mrs. Liggett volunteered. 

“Tell me about the Macksons,” Kelso said. “They 
make very good company.” 

“They are well,” Betty informed him. “Don’t you 
think him a splendid fellow?” 

“Fine! But she looked good, too.” 

“Ugh! Impossible. They don’t get along, I under¬ 
stand.” 

“What’s the trouble? Jealousy?” 

“Envy. What has she to be jealous of? You know 
when a woman marries an attorney she must expect 
stenographers and that sort of thing. These are neces¬ 
sary evils. But there is no use getting excited over 
them.” 

“So she lost her head, eh?” Kelso commented. 

“And he is a splendid chap, one of the best fellows 
in the w T orld. And there is nothing to it. He does not 
care a snap of his fingers for the girl. But it isn’t one 
girl; it’s every one he has had—I don’t know how many. 
No sooner are they well established in the office than 
they are told to go.” 

“Can’t his wife interest herself in something or 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


273 

somebody ?" Doris inquired with a facetious turn. 
“What is wrong with her?" 

“Jealousy! Envy! Insanity! I don't know. An 
impossible wife, I call her. She abhors the thought of 
an office. Nags all the time he is home. Wonders if 
he calls the stenographer by her first name, and all that 
stuff. No woman like that has any business getting 
married. She does not know what the world is. I 
think she is suspicious about herself." 

“Gracious! Can't some one take her aside and set 
her right?" This from Evelyn, with a slight show of 
impatience. 

“She’s too narrow-minded," Mrs. Liggett promptly 
assured her, “you know . . . one of these strict disci¬ 
plinarians. Expects her husband to wear a coat of mail 
to protect himself from the shafts of wicked women. 
She’s like many another foolish wife. The girls are 
not all vicious. Most of them mind their own business 
pretty well—if left to themselves. It isn't the pretty 
stenographer who wrecks homes quite so much as the 
persecuted husband seeking rest and amusement. His 
wife won't talk to him. He wants to sit down and chat 
and he turns to the girl in the office. Then you have 
another terrible triangle." 

While this discussion lasted Edith spoke not a word, 
but sat silent through it all, her face troubled, her lips 
compressed. She was thinking of the subde ingenuity 
of this woman. How she hated her! Dinner was over 
and the dessert was being brought in. Kelso lighted a 
cigarette, but Mrs. Liggett took it from his hand and 
transferred it to her own mouth. 


274 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Do you know," Kelso interposed, “there is a dance 
to-night at the Country Club. What do you say if we 
all go?” 

“Sure, let’s all go," Betty chimed in. 

“Do you want to go?" Kelso asked, looking directly 
at Edith. 

“Of course,” she replied. 

This was an in r Ormal affair, conducted for the ac¬ 
commodation of members who cared for that kind of 
entertainment. Not everybody came for the dancing, 
however, for bridge was constantly in session, and there 
were bowling and pool tournaments in progress every 
night. Besides, it was a charming place to spend an 
evening, with members continually bringing guests and 
introducing them to the whole house without favor or 
distinction. It was considered a great honor to be 
able to boast of membership in the Shefford Country 
Club, whose roster was made up with deliberate scru¬ 
tiny and selection. For the ambitious few it was an 
achievement to be admitted to its coterie. It was also 
a privilege to obtain entrance as a guest. 

The Wheatons arrived during one of the intervals. 
The orchestra had ceased playing and the company 
were sitting about the main room in groups of threes 
and fours, chatting boisterously and giggling persist¬ 
ently. There were few couples to be found inside; these 
usually retired to the spacious and secluded porch out¬ 
side to escape the glare and the stuffiness of the ball¬ 
room. Kelso took advantage of the momentary inter¬ 
mission to present his guests, who were received 
everywhere with the utmost courtesy and consideration. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 275 


He escorted them through the house. “What ador¬ 
able chairs!” Betty exclaimed as she surveyed the rich 
upholstery in the main room. They peered into the 
ballroom, its floor reflecting the lights and shadows of 
the brilliantly illuminated fixtures suspended from the 
ceiling. He showed them the parlor and its art treas¬ 
ures. A large canvas covered a side wall representing 
a youth with an animal’s skin about him and a girl 
clothed in diaphanous white drapery running down a 
hill before a coming storm. “A classic!” Betty pro¬ 
nounced. 

“Only a reproduction,” Kelso informed her. “The 
original is by Le Cot and hangs in New York. A 
Shefford man copied it and brought it here.” 

Another dance began and Betty began to sway to 
the accompaniment of the music. “You want to 
dance,” Kelso observed. This broke up the party. 
Evelyn and Doris quickly found partners, while Edith 
moved away in the direction of the front porch with 
Mr. Liggett. 

“You do not care so much for dancing,” he said to 
her. 

“I was crazy about it once upon a time,” Edith ad¬ 
mitted. “It has not the same attraction for me now.” 

“Betty is very fond of it. It makes me sad. When 
she is with me she has to make a sacrifice.” 

“Do you think she minds?” 

“Me, or the sacrifice?” 

She wanted to say, “You,” but had not the courage. 
So she replied, “Making the sacrifice for you. 


276 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Youth is impetuous,” he answered, “still it must 
have its fling.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Betty likes you very much. Do you know that?” 

“Me?” Edith cried. 

“Yes, indeed. And I wish she could see more of 
you. It does her good to come here.” 

“It does her no good to see me, I assure you.” 

What else might have been said was suddenly inter¬ 
rupted by the sound of another voice falling ever so 
lightly on the night air. It was pronouncing Mrs. 
Wheaton’s name. 

“I was told to commit this intrusion,” it continued. 
“Will you dance with me? They said Mr. Liggett 
would not mind.” 

“Me! Not I! I shall not mind it in the least. Sure 
thing! Run along and dance.” 

“You have met Mr. Southey?” Edith asked, rising. 

“Yes, indeed. How are you? Go along and enjoy 
yourselves.” 

She did not enjoy it. What with her husband gone 
with the one person in the world she feared and de¬ 
spised most, there was no relief for her troubled imagi¬ 
nation because of the terrible images that crowded upon 
it in endless confusion. She looked for the errant two, 
to gaze upon them reproachfully, but they were not to 
be found. Strange! This was the second dance since 
their arrival. She was puzzled. Evelyn and Doris 
were on the floor, but Kelso was not, she was sure. 
The encore was given and she remained for it, the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 277 

music sounding in her ears like so many measured 
monosyllables of meaningless noise. 

Was it that she really cared or was it anger at being 
made to appear such a fool? It was evident that Kelso 
was growing indifferent in his manner toward her; but 
she was not ready to admit that she had lost him. It 
was just his way. Where was he then? Oh, out on 
the porch, buried deep in one chair, his feet on another, 
while his interesting companion amused him w T ith anec¬ 
dotes of New York and Newport. She might have 
thought no more about the whole affair, harmless at 
its worst, were it not for the fact that he was alone with 
this siren. It was the woman she feared. 

She spent the evening mingling with the guests, stop¬ 
ping to congratulate Mina Gorham on her husband’s 
recent appointment to the judiciary, to whisper a word 
of admiration to the Smiths on their new automobile, 
to inquire of Mr. Oliver of the progress of Mrs. 
Oliver’s recovery from an operation; but she did not 
dance again. Jack Southey took her downstairs for re¬ 
freshments, and they consumed the best part of an 
hour talking about their mutual friends. When she 
did return the Wheaton girls were seated on the porch 
chatting with Henry Liggett. She joined them. 

“Where is Kelso?” Evelyn asked immediately. 

“I have not seen him all night,” Edith replied. 

Presently the missing pair appeared around the cor¬ 
ner of the veranda. Cries of “Where have you been? 
Don’t you like our company? It’s about time you 
showed up!” greeted them, followed by, “Why! 
What’s the matter? Can’t we sit down and have a 


278 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


chat without everybody getting excited? We just ran 
into Lewis!" But Edith was only intermittently aware 
of the remarks they exchanged. Her mind was full of 
horrible thoughts. She saw her whole future suddenly 
unrolled before her and passing down its endless chaos 
she perceived herself miserable and unfortunate, with 
nothing to hope for but a troubled existence. 

The next morning she encountered Mrs. Liggett in 
the sun-parlor, where she sat becomingly dressed and 
ready for a ride. In the fresh morning light her color 
appeared radiant, and she looked up at Edith's ap¬ 
proach with a half disappointed smile, that she tried 
artfully to conceal. 

“You are out early this morning," she greeted her 
with a show’ of pleasure, but Edith was in no mood to 
accept these amiable overtures. The morning found 
her unrefreshed and impatient, and there were evi¬ 
dences about her eyes of a sleepless night. 

“I ahvays get out early in the morning—to attend 
to my w r ork,” she replied. 

‘‘Work! Who w T ould suppose you had to do such a 
thing as v r ork?” 

“I do it —occasionally! There is enough to be done 
when one w r ants to look for it.” 

Mrs. Liggett sat back in her chair and smiled—a 
sw’eet derisive smile. 

“I let my servants manage everything/’ she said. 
“They are accustomed to doing these things, and must 
take the responsibility of them. Don’t you know, you 
can get more out of people by letting them feel their 
owm importance!” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 279 

“That may be right, but I think a woman has a place, 
too,” Edith replied. “She it is who is responsible for 
the good order of her house, not the servants, and she 
cannot successfully shift that.” 

“My! You are thoroughly practical! But you like 
it.” 

Edith began to straighten the chairs, and pick up and 
arrange in neat piles the books and magazines. Passing 
before Mrs. Liggett her eyes rested on her costume, 
breeches and coat and puttees. 

“Are you going riding?” she asked, and added 
quickly: “That is a foolish question, I suppose!” 

“Yes! Kelso promised to show me the Glenwood 
dam this morning. I wonder what’s keeping him!” 

“I should think you saw enough of him last night!” 

“Oh, hardly! We were not alone five minutes. You 
see we met Mr. Lewis, and he asked us to join his 
party.” 

“Well! It was not quite the proper thing to do, 
was it? To go off and leave us as you did!” 

“Nobody minded, I am sure!” 

“I minded, and I may as well tell you I don’t want 
it to occur again.” 

Mrs. Liggett looked at her mockingly. Finding her 
in earnest she, too, assumed an air of defiance. 

“What can you do about it?” she asked con¬ 
temptuously. 

“I prefer to wait until the right time comes before 
making up my mind.” 

“Never do that! Never act instantly-” 

“If my husband hasn’t sense enough to know the 



280 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


difference between right and wrong I am going to teach' 
him-” 

“Indeed! He will not like that, I am sure!” 

“He is my husband; he has no time for other 
women-” 

Mrs. Liggett sat up. 

“I did not come here to quarrel with you, Mrs. 
Wheaton,” she said mockingly, “or to be dictated to, 
either.” 

“If you don't know your place I am trying to do you 
a favor-” 

“I am capable, thank you-” 

“All I want you to do is to leave Mr. Wheaton 
alone.” 

“And if he chooses not to let me alone?” 

“He will choose for himself when you cease running 
after him.” 

“Running after him! Really, Mrs. Wheaton, you 
are making yourself ridiculous. Kelso likes company. 
He wants life—not the monotony you prefer. Right 
now I'll wager he's tired of your hackneyed ways.” 

“You wicked woman! It is your kind that destroys 
comfortable homes! But you won’t destroy mine. ...” 

“Little did your other home bother you! Don't be 
such a hypocrite! If Kelso wants to ride with me, I 
cannot refuse him. He says he is not happy here-” 

“Stop! Don’t dare talk like that—don’t-” 

The presence of the maid behind her hushed her. 
Mrs. Wheaton was wanted on the telephone—should 
she take the message? 

She was bade to. When she returned it w T as to bring 








THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 281 


information from the Sister Superior that her little girl 
had been taken seriously ill with typhoid fever, and had 
been ordered to the isolation hospital immediately. 
Edith heard no more. She rushed to the ’phone and 
called the Academy. 

Babs dying! The thought nearly drove her mad. 


T HE hands of the House clock stood at exactly 
half-past eleven as Congressman Colman en¬ 
tered the Hall of Representatives with his bun¬ 
dle of notes under his arm and hurriedly made his way 
across the floor. Of his state of mind there could be 
no doubt, for it was apparent that he was nervous and 
inclined to be depressed. It was Calendar Wednesday 
and the Committee on the Judiciary was ready to call 
up for consideration Joint Resolution 300, more com¬ 
monly known as the Colman Resolution, and urge its 
adoption. There was going to be a battle, one of those 
protracted debates, with the dividing line between the 
majority and the minority sides of the House a fluctu¬ 
ating streak, indistinctly drawn. The knowledge of 
this, the appreciable uncertainty that everybody felt but 
could not resolve, made him solicitous. Moreover, 
the Committee had made known the fact that it re¬ 
ported the bill back to the House with great reluctance, 
preferring to let the responsibility for its rejection rest 
upon the shoulders of those who had originated the 
measure, rather than assume this obnoxious liability. 

There was going to be opposition of course, but to 
say that this hostility was directed against the measure 
would be decidedly unfair to those who directed it. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 283 

It was not the consequences of stringent legislation they 
feared so much as the power of Congress. What with 
the passage of the recent Prohibition Amendment and 
the proposed Maternity and Educational Bills up for 
consideration they viewed with alarm the increasing 
autocracy of the Federal Government. They were 
stalwart champions of States’ rights, these men, and 
were zealous protagonists of the doctrine of State sov¬ 
ereignty. The danger for them lay not in the proposed 
resolution but in the ominous centralization of power. 
In defense of this principle they were willing to stand 
or fall. 

All this would formerly have increased Colman’s en¬ 
thusiasm, but now he found himself pitched to the keen¬ 
est anxiety in apprehension of a savage struggle. While 
he entertained the utmost respect for his opponents’ 
point of view, their sincere faith in the doctrine of 
States’ rights, their genuine horror of Federal domi¬ 
nation, still he felt that this was no ordinary measure, 
interfering with individual rights or liberties, but one 
that affected in particular the general welfare of the 
country considered as an indissoluble unity, and not as 
a mere confederation of individual States. Fie had 
set his heart and soul on this work. It was the distrac¬ 
tion as well as the endeavor of his later life. Never 
was he so boundlessly, so confidently happy—never 
since the time of his marriage. He was happy then, 
at ease with the world, satisfied with himself, his home, 
his wife; but that was joy of another kind. To-day, for 
the first time since that unfortunate decree, he was 
aware of a sense of fresh responsibility, of some defi- 


284 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

nite and particular purpose for which he was answer- 
able to himself as well as to others, and the fact that 
he had something important to do, to occupy his mind, 
gave added zest and continuity to his scattered impulses 
and the glow of consecration to his work. 

The galleries were filling slowly with sightseers and 
interested auditors; groups of members were scatter¬ 
ing here and there through the seats, like an army in 
open order; the Clerk lumbered in and climbed to his 
place behind the rostrum with his bundle of precious 
papers in his hand, while Colman sat in his seat, his 
fingers joined before his lips, his eyes nervously glued 
to the clock. It was approaching the hour of twelve. 

Wilbur Crane, majority floor-leader, came up the 
aisle, solemnly and deliberately. Colman accosted him. 

“What do you think?” 

“Not a chance. The Farmers are dead against it. 
Want long term credits and more tariff protection. I 
promised to compromise.” 

“What?” Colman cried. “On higher tariff!” 

“Sure! Promise anything—now! Give them the 
Capitol, if they want it.” 

“Can’t you whip them into shape? We ought to 
have the majority.” 

“We ought to; but the agricultural bloc has smashed 
the parties. Wise birds, those fellows! They know 
what they want and they are herded together like cattle 
until they get it.” 

“It’s the South and West,” said Bert. “You can’t 
control them.” 

“Well, they stuck pretty close together for the Smith- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 285 

Towner Bill! YV 7 anted the rest of the country to pour 
money into their own States. That’s the trouble, you 
see, with this whole Congress. Too much politics! 
Wondering what the folks home in the district will say! 
Last year we ran rough-shod over private interests and 
the people are beginning to complain. Four million 
soldiers home from France. Feel sore over the Pro¬ 
hibition affair, which they claim was rushed through 
during their absence. That’s what scares us. The 
Smith-Towner Bill was killed because it handed too 
much power over to the Federal Government. They 
mean to argue along the same lines to-day.” 

Crane’s analysis of the situation convinced Bert of 
the herculean task required to get his measure passed 
by a Congress composed for the most part of the ex¬ 
treme conservative wings of the two old parties; and 
yet there was nothing dearer to him or more consoling 
than the triumph of this project, his own conception, 
on which he had expended more concentrated effort 
than he thought possible at the time of its inception. 
Besides it was his maiden-effort in the work of legisla¬ 
tion and he could not bear to entertain the notion of 
absolute failure. 

“You know,” he said, “I have set my heart on this 
bill and I should not like to meet with disappointment.” 

“Don’t let that worry you,” amended the other. 
“You will get used to these things after a while.” 

“Did you see Fenton?” 

“Nothing doing! Unbendable as a stone wall.” 

From the door to the right of the rostrum came the 
Speaker, a large, stout man with a beard, followed by 


286 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


the Chaplain of the House, a venerable man with white 
flowing locks. This was the signal for the noise here¬ 
tofore prevalent throughout the Chamber to subside. 
Whispers alone were heard as the members and officers 
of the assembly rose from their places and stood with 
bowed heads. The hands of the clock now stood at the 
hour of twelve, and a hush settled upon the room as 
the Speaker brought the gavel forcibly upon the desk, 
calling for order. Immediately the solemn tones of the 
chaplain’s voice were heard in fervent prayer. 

After the Journal of the proceedings of yesterday 
had been read and approved, the record corrected in 
several places, a point of order raised on the absence 
of a quorum with the resultant closing of doors, notifi¬ 
cation of the absentees and the calling of the roll, and 
finally the presentation of a conference report, the 
Speaker announced: 

“To-day is Calendar Wednesday. The Clerk will 
call the roll of committees/’ 

The Committee on Ways and Means was called and 
the call proceeded. The Committee on the Judiciary 
was called and the Chairman rose to address the Chair. 

“Mr. Speaker, by direction of the Committee on the 
Judiciary, I call up House Joint Resolution 300, pro¬ 
posing an amendment to the Constitution.’’ 

“The gentleman from Illinois, Chairman of the 
Committee on the Judiciary,” stated the Speaker, “calls 
up a resolution which the Clerk will report.” 

With nonchalance the House submitted to the read¬ 
ing of the bill. The Clerk’s voice, shrill and blatant, 
carried the words of the resolution at breathless speed 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 287 

to every part of the vast chamber, but without arresting 
the attention of a single person save the few unin¬ 
formed onlookers who sat in the galleries, amazed at 
this business of legislation. The Speaker was gone, 
having surrendered the gavel, temporarily, to the gen¬ 
tleman from Iowa as Speaker pro-tempore, and dis¬ 
appeared through the same portal by which he had 
entered just a few minutes before. Some few members 
sat at ease in their chairs and pretended to show some 
interest in the affairs of State; others wandered about 
the Chamber aimlessly, looking around the room, into 
the seats or into the balconies in search of one they 
knew; others met in the rear of the hall and chatted 
jovially but without disorder, while another few were 
occupied at the tables with a procrastinated and accu¬ 
mulated correspondence. To look down upon the 
three hundred odd members composing the session it 
was a question how many of them represented the 
neighbors who supposedly had sent them there. 

The reading stopped and the Chairman of the Com¬ 
mittee which reported the measure to the House arose 
to obtain recognition. 

“Mr. Speaker and gentlemen,” he said, “the resolu¬ 
tion presented for your consideration by the House 
Committee on the Judiciary is short and to the point. 
It provides for an amendment to the Constitution giv¬ 
ing Congress the power to establish and enforce by ap¬ 
propriate legislation uniform laws as to marriage and 
divorce. You are asked to take action upon this meas¬ 
ure to-day, but the amendment shall not be valid to all 
intents and purposes as part of the Constitution until 


288 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


passed by both Houses of Congress by a two-thirds 
vote and duly ratified by the legislatures of three- 
fourths of the several States. 

“We hear it said continually: Why does not Con¬ 
gress propose a remedy to relieve a situation that is 
becoming more and more each year a menace to the 
stability of family and national life? There is to-day 
in the United States one divorce in every eight or ten 
marriages; the number of divorces granted during the 
year 1901 in the United States was more than twice 
as great as in all the rest of Christendom; for the last 
quarter century the number of marriages has not even 
doubled, while the number of divorces has increased 
almost fourfold; there are to-day about thirty-five dif¬ 
ferent causes for absolute divorce enumerated in the 
statutes of the various States; what is the matter with 
Congress? This we hear from every side. Now, gen¬ 
tlemen, the purpose of this resolution is to enable Con¬ 
gress to do something. We cannot hope to regulate 
marriage and divorce, unless we are authorized to pass 
uniform laws. This is not a local matter. It is not a 
matter of interest to one State and not to another. 
Marriage is a vital institution, the civil aspect of it 
one upon which the life of the nation depends. It is 
a fundamental national question and Congress is the 
proper body to treat it. 

“It is not too much to ask for legislation in favor 
of absolute divorce. The Church of Rome forbids it. 
The State of South Carolina forbids it. It is absolutely 
prohibited in Italy, Spain, and to two-thirds of the 
population of Austria-Hungary in the days of the old 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 289 

monarchy, while the Latin-American countries of the 
Argentine, Brazil, Peru, Chile and others enjoy the 
same law. A legal separation is recognized in all of 
these jurisdictions, but without the right to remarry. 
In Canada the important provinces of Quebec, Ontario, 
Newfoundland and the Northwest Territories have no 
divorce laws, although divorce may be obtained in very 
exceptional cases and then only through a special act of 
Parliament. 

“The adoption of a national marriage and divorce 
law would abolish automatically many, if not all, of the 
alleged contributing causes of the divorce disease. 1 
mean by contributing causes, the present laxity of law 
and its maladministration, the growing tendency of 
young folks to wed in haste, the failure on the part of 
parents to exercise proper oversight in the matter of 
their children’s associates, the free and easy public mind 
which seems to hold the marriage vow too lightly, the 
jazzing wife, the marrying parson, the divorce lawyer. 
Proper legislation would remedy most of these. Pro¬ 
hibit absolute divorce entirely. Permit separation from 
bed and board, but without the right to remarry. The 
rights of neither party are then violated. I reserve the 
remainder of my time.” 

“The gentleman reserves 52 minutes.” 

Mr. Fenton rose and addressed the Chair. 

“For what purpose does the gentleman from New 
York rise?” 

“I desire recognition.” 

“Is the gentleman from New York opposed to the 

bill?” 


290 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“I am.” 

“Does any member of the Committee desire recogni¬ 
tion in opposition to the bill? If not, the Chair will 
recognize the gentleman from New York who is op¬ 
posed to the bill.” 

“Mr. Speaker and gentlemen, this is a dangerous 
piece of legislation that confronts us to-day, which if 
permitted to pass, will encroach on the rights of evrey 
State in the Union. The purpose of this bill is to dele¬ 
gate to Congress, powers which it never should possess, 
which the authors of the Constitution never intended 
it should possess. We have already added to that 
great charter more amendments than are necessary and 
we ought to act very carefully in the future about sur¬ 
rendering away rights and privileges that are inherent. 
This nation was once torn asunder precisely because of 
difference of opinion on a question such as this, and I 
would not care to predict what might occur in the future 
if we persist in robbing the several States of their law¬ 
fully constituted rights. 

“I am not opposed to the general tenor of this bill, 
but I am unalterably opposed to the method of en¬ 
forcing it. The State can do the same work you are 
asking Congress to do and in perfect harmony. Let 
them get together, that is all. But for God’s sake don’t 
force us to subscribe to another amendment. The 
poor old Constitution is becoming more and more like 
a kite every time Congress meets. Remember the 
States enjoy certain inalienable rights, for under our 
political system the original and ultimate sovereignty 
was vested in the State, or the people of the States, sev- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 291 

erally. We have no desire to witness an increase in 
Federal power or in centralized government. It 
smacks of autocracy.” 

Mr. Crane: “Will the gentleman yield?” 

Mr. Fenton: “Yes.” 

Mr. Crane: “Does the gentleman mean that alle¬ 
giance is due only to the State and not to the United 
States except through the legislative bodies of the in¬ 
dividual States?” 

Mr. Fenton: “I mean this: that it is possible to con¬ 
ceive of State rights without State sovereignty, and the 
unity of the political people of the United States with¬ 
out making the States mere dependencies on the Fed¬ 
eral Government. The political people of the United 
States have never existed except as mutually indepen¬ 
dent States.” 

Mr. Crane: “But these mutually independent States 
have never existed and acted as free, independent and 
sovereign States or nations, but as one federated gov¬ 
ernment.” 

Mr. Fenton replied that it was not his contention 
that the States w 7 ere severally sovereign, but that they 
possessed certain rights which even the national gov¬ 
ernment must respect, the destruction of which States 
as elementary political bodies would mean the ultimate 
destruction of the United States. 

For more than tw T o hours the debate persisted with 
much feeling and acrimony. It was a sight to look 
dow T n upon. Fierce wrangles began in a score of places, 
isolated remarks w r ere heard between the debates com¬ 
ing from members in their seats, but no one lost his 


292 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

head. For it was almost universally agreed that uni¬ 
form legislation in respect to marriage and divorce was 
a good thing, but whether Congressional action was the 
way to do it was another matter. So independent was 
the trend of personal opinion on this question that it 
was a problem for the leaders to estimate the strength 
of either side. A test vote was imminent, since the 
previous question would soon be demanded and Colman 
obtained the floor to make the motion that the- bill be 
recommended to the Committee on the Judiciary with 
instructions to report the same back forthwith in an 
amended form. 

A point of order was raised that the instructions 
were not germane to the bill, but the objection was over¬ 
ruled and the question was put to the House. It was 
taken and the motion was rejected on a division of 160 
to 168. The proponents of the measure lacked a bare 
majority. 

It was evident that the resolution would not pass the 
House that day, and it was decided by the protagonist 
group to dispense with Colman’s prepared speech and 
move to adjourn. This would defer consideration until 
the following Wednesday and, in the ensuing week, 
additional pressure might be brought to bear upon a 
sufficient number of intransigent members of the minor¬ 
ity so as to bring the voting strength of the House up 
to the majority required. Accordingly Colman moved 
that the House do now adjourn. 

Mr. Fenton was on his feet in an instant. 

“Mr. Speaker, I hope the gentleman from Connecti¬ 
cut will not move to adjourn. There is no use in let- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


293 


ting the grass grow around this bill before we finish it. 
Why not vote on it now and get it out of the way?” 

“I should not object were it not for the fact that I 
want additional time to prepare my remarks,” Colman 
replied. 

“Mr. Speaker, I suggest the absence of a quorum,” 
Mr. Fenton cried. 

Mr. Crane arose. “I make the point of order that 
a quorum is not required on a motion to adjourn. It is 
evident that there is a quorum present, anyway.” 

The Chair sustained the point of order, and on a 
division, demanded by Mr. Colman, the question on 
his motion to adjourn was rejected. 

A dozen members were on their feet shouting to the 
Chair for recognition. Tingling in every nerve and 
perspiring, Colman stood in the aisle hoping to catch 
the Speaker’s attention, his blue eyes flashing with 
anger. The Chair rapped loudly for order, and the 
gentleman from Pennsylvania, one of the opposition, 
was recognized. 

“Mr. Speaker,” he cried. “I move the previous 
question on the resolution to final passage.” 

There was some subterfuge here, the opponents try¬ 
ing to force a final vote at once. Colman was on his 
feet instantaneously. 

“Mr. Speaker,” he called. “I move that the House 
stand in recess until 8 o’clock.” 

Mr. Fenton arose. “Mr. Speaker, I demand the 
regular order and make the point of order that the mo¬ 
tion is not in order.” 


294 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


Mr. Morrison: “Mr. Speaker, the question now is 
upon ordering the previous question, is it not?” 

He was informed that that was correct. 

Mr. Colman: “Mr. Speaker-” 

Mr. Fenton: “I demand the regular order.” 

The Speaker: “The question before the House is 
the motion of the gentleman from Pennsylvania. As 
many as are in favor of ordering the previous question 
will say ‘aye’; those opposed, ‘no.’ The ayes seem to 
have it.” 

Mr. Colman: “I ask for a division.” 

The Speaker: “Those in favor of the motion will 
rise. 

“Those opposed will rise.” 

After counting, the Chair announced that the ayes 
were 161 and the nays 167, so the previous question 
was ordered. Mr. Colman demanded the yeas and 
nays, but his demand was not seconded by one-fifth of 
the members present. The hour of five had arrived, 
and most of the members were anxious to get away to 
their offices in order to clear up the day’s correspon¬ 
dence before dinner. Thereupon Mr. Colman made 
a point of no quorum, but the Speaker, after counting 
the House, announced that 216 members were present, 
a quorum. 

Colman rose again to address the Chair with another 
motion to recommit the resolution to the Committee 
on the Judiciary, but when the question was taken this 
motion also was rejected. 

The fact that the day was lost was sadly evident 
throughout the chamber, for the violent agitation that 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 295 

had marked the afternoon session was subsiding grad¬ 
ually until it finally had ceased altogether. The whis¬ 
pers in the gallery died down and the spectators relaxed 
a little. Bert alone remained tense; his hot anger had 
cooled into a vindictiveness that set the hard lines on 
his face even harder. He clutched the arms of his chair 
desperately. He heard the formal steps being taken, 
preliminary to the vote on the final passage, the order¬ 
ing of the resolution to be engrossed and read a third 
time, the hurried third reading by title only, and then 
the question on the adoption of the resolution being 
put to the House. It was hopeless, hopeless. Answer¬ 
ing his name he left his seat and hurried down the 
aisle, defeated and heartbroken. As he stepped to the 
front of the floor a messenger met him with a telegram. 
Tearing it open he read: 

“Barbara seriously ill with typhoid. Better come 
home. Dahill.” 

He passed his hand over his brow like one struck, 
and a cold chill ran down his back. Groping for the 
door he passed out and raced to his office. 


XXII 


K ELSO was just leaving his room when Edith 
brushed by him, almost heedlessly. Her pre¬ 
cipitate haste and anxiously drawn countenance 
startled him. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, surprised. 

“I’ve got to go to the hospital,” she replied. “Babs 
is very sick.” 

“Babs! Who’s Babs? Oh, yes. That’s too bad!” 
Her face was charged with tragedy and her mind 
entertained no desire save that of getting to the bedside 
of her helpless child as soon as possible. 

“Would you mind asking Charles to get the car?” 
she requested him, from the depths of the clothes closet. 

He returned to the room and stood back to w T atch 
her. 

“I believe he is washing it this morning. I was 
thinking—well—perhaps, we would go away to-day.” 
“Who?” she inquired in amazement. 

“Well, you and I. The Liggetts are going with us. 
Suppose we run off to Newport for a little while!” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go. Besides, this is hardly 
the proper time to tell me, is it?” 

He stood staring at her, vexed and awkward. 

“Yes, I know. But you see I didn’t quite think of 

it until yesterday—and I had no chance to ask you-•” 

296 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 297 


“You mean last night. Is this a trip for Betty Lig¬ 
gett’s benefit? Why are you dragging me along?” 

“Well, I couldn’t very well go without you, my dear. 
It would look odd—you’ll enjoy the ride, won’t you?” 

“No! I tell you I can’t go. Don’t you understand 
that it’s impossible?” 

“Because of the kid, you mean! Oh, she’ll be all 
right. Most children get sick now and then. What 
ails her?” 

“Typhoid! They’ve got to take her to the isolation 
hospital.” 

“So that’s where you’re going! And you’ll come 
back here full of bugs and things! I thought they 
didn’t allow any person to visit that place.” 

She made no attempt to reply to this, treating it 
with the contempt it so richly deserved. She was almost 
dressed, and in another minute would be ready to de¬ 
part. 

“Are you going to get the car?” she asked. 

“I told you it was being washed. What time are 
you coming back?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Before luncheon?” 

“What difference does it make?” 

“I was only thinking we ought to be ready to leave 
right after luncheon.” 

“You need not count on me. I told you I would 
not go.” 

“Why not?” he insisted. 

She looked at him with disdain. He caught the ex- 


298 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

pression and moved nearer, resting his hand on the 
bow foot of the bed. 

“There is something you are trying to slip over me. 
What is it? I guess I have certain rights around 
here-” 

“What are you doing?” she taunted; “talking for 
the gallery? She can’t hear you—up here.” 

“It’s like you to defend yourself behind an insinua¬ 
tion like that,” he said with a sneer, “I will have you 
know I am no fool-” 

“Indeed! I would pity you if I thought you weren’t.” 

“You don’t have to waste any sympathy on me-” 

“Oh, no! I’m not wasting any—but you are so 
ridiculous. You come to invite me to an excursion like 
a sentenced malefactor. If I really thought you wanted 
me to refuse you I would be tempted to accept.” 

“So that’s your game! Well, you are going whether 
you want to or not. And you are not going to any 
pest house, and come back here full of disease and 
everything else. You are to do as I tell you, see!” 

She stood before the mirror, pretending to rearrange 
her hat. What should she do—obey her husband, or 
hearken to the pitiful pleadings of her stricken child? 
She was not long in deciding, for the next minute she 
turned abruptly and made as if to walk around him. 
But he continued to block the way. 

“Let me by, please,” she said to him curtly. 

“Not yet!” 

“Kelso!” 

But he stood there defiant, provoking, rubbing his 
cheek and chin. His lips were compressed and hard. 






THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 299 

She raised her hand to push him aside, but he resisted 
the effort. 

“Don’t you dare to stop me,” she warned him. “Let 
me pass, I say,” and she pressed against him with all 
the force at her command. He caught her in his arms 
and held her. 

“Let me alone!” she cried, furious with rage. “You 
always were a bully, and mean, and contemptible.” She 
fought savagely, wrestled w T ith him, and tried to free 
herself. Her arms shot out, her hands were delivering 
fierce blows on his flabby face and thick neck. Infuri¬ 
ated, he brought his heavy hand down against her, 
and pushed her back from him. One of her fists came 
in contact with his eye and blinded him. He caught 
her by the throat and threw her from him brutally. 
She fell headlong across the floor, her temple striking 
the corner of the bed as she fell. 

He looked down at her, his tightly clenched fists 
pressed against his sides, his brain in a whirl. She lay 
quite motionless, with eyes closed. Stealthily he crept 
from the room and escaped into the hall. Then he 
called for one of the maids. 

Edith could not remember where she was. A flash 
of ice, a flash of fire, a whirly feeling of unsteadiness 
and dizziness, and the room swam with moving objects 
until it disappeared from view. She felt light, so light 
that she seemed to be floating, her breath caught at 
intervals, with great difficulty. The earth was below 
her, she was sure, but she could not look down. Fear 
held her like a vise and she fought desperately against 
it. Still she knew who she was, Edith Wheaton, and 


3 oo THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

she had nothing to fear, for she was alone, away from 
her enemies and whirling through empty space as free 
and airy as a cloud. Because she was alone she tried 
to hasten, of course; but she could not escape the awful 
suspicion that she was not alone, and, as a consequence, 
began to believe that she was in deadly peril. There 
was a wicked shadow pressing close behind her. She 
could feel it. She even thought she could hear its 
faint sighing, its faint sobbing gurgle, its little stealthy 
motion. A faceless thing, yet with eyes to see and 
power to move, that hung wavering there close by her 
—a shadow. 

So cold, so dark and dismal was the place where she 
fell, a place bristling with shades and terrible trees, 
that she was alarmed. She was in the midst of a 
forest, and she experienced a strange sense of utter 
desolation. Terror of the people in the city obsessed 
her, making her want to shrink from meeting them. 
There was something obscure and underhand about all 
this, which she could not understand, and it made her 
recoil from wanting to be discovered. They were set¬ 
ting traps to ensnare her, fiendish wretches, and were 
bent on her destruction. It was awful to be pursued, 
with nothing but this shadow for a companion. Still 
—what had she to fear? What had she done to want 
to fear any one? Presently the atmosphere grew in¬ 
tolerably close, followed by moments of delirium, then 
horror. The trees, it seemed, were wet and soggy to 
the touch, like cold damp places in a subterranean 
world. She was in the midst of them, condemned to 
remain in solitary stillness, with tall, gaunt shadows 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


301 


leering at her like so many accusing witnesses. These 
were the spies sent out by the people in the city, her 
pursuers, and their long skinny fingers pointed at her 
out of the Cimmerian gloom. In the hollow of one, 
more friendly than the rest, she concealed herself from 
the hostile force. But it was the people, the ubiquitous 
and omnipotent people who swarmed out of the city, 
that confirmed her worst fears. They made the laws, 
and they persecuted those that transgressed them with 
implacable vengeance. 

When she attempted to resume her flight again, she 
discovered to her intense horror that she was sinking 
up to her knees in the marshy ground. To add to her 
peril the terrible thing was close beside her, breathing 
its foul breath upon her exposed shoulders. She suc¬ 
ceeded in moving, but with the greatest difficulty, for 
her feet were heavy and stuck fast to the earth. The 
terrible thing upbraided her when she tried to run, and 
taunted her mercilessly for her cowardice. Then she 
did a heinous thing. She attempted to destroy it, fell¬ 
ing it with a club. For some inexplicable reason it 
yielded to the blow, and she stopped to examine its 
hurt. It was strangely light, and the limbs, as if they 
had been empty, moved with the utmost freedom. The 
face w r as pale and shockingly smeared with blood about 
one temple. It repelled her, yet she continued to look 
intently with curious gaze. It was herself she beheld, 
wfith pallid countenance and parted lips. She arose in 
horror. She had killed her owm self. 

Presently there were voices around her, soft tones, 
sharp tones. A strong odor penetrated her nostrils, 


) 




302 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

burning her nose and making her eyes smart with tears. 
She opened them to see a clean, habitable room, her 
own panelled room with its gay cretonne hangings. A 
man with a pleasant face was bending over her. It 
was Dr. Dahill. 

“Where am I?” she asked. 

“You’re all right, now,” he smilingly assured her. 
“Don’t try to talk. Rest if you can.” 

“How—how is Babs?” 

“She’s all right.” 

“Will she get better?” 

“Yes, indeed! She is better already.” 

“How are you, dear?” 

She turned her eyes at the question, and saw Kelso. 
Then she remembered and suddenly averted them. 
“Doctor,” she said, “can’t I get up?” 

“No—you must remain perfectly quiet for to-day. 
To-morrow, perhaps!” 

“Can’t I see my little girl?” 

“Not to-day!” 

“Are you sure she is getting better?” 

“Most assuredly, madam. She has had a turn for 
the better.” 

“Thank you, doctor. You are very good.” 

For a whole day and a night she lay there, recuper¬ 
ating from the effects of the syncope, during which 
time she thought much of the things that had come 
to pass of late—none of which were wholly pleasant. 
She was remarkably calm and even coldly self-possessed 
amid dreams which ordinarily would have been a de¬ 
lirium of agony. The vicissitudes of the past year 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 303 

were misty substances, that affected her sensitive imagi¬ 
nation but slightly, but the painful scene, enacted in 
this very room only a short hour ago, was a humiliation 
she could not endure. It was inconceivable that Kelso 
should have behaved like a brute, and the remembrance 
of it would prove difficult to efface. A thousand times 
she re-lived the short, ignominious scene, and thanked 
God each time for the joy of living to make amends. 

A stupendous idea suddenly drove the blood in tor¬ 
rents to her brain and for a brief moment she felt 
dizzy. It was not a miracle at all. She had been 
killed, Edith Wheaton, the mistress of Westlawn. She 
was as truly dead as if she had ceased to breathe, 
murdered by her own husband, and lost to him forever. 
Fie could now go away with Betty to Newport without 
fear of being reproved. He could marry her, for that 
matter, as soon as old Liggett was gone. But she 
was dead. To-morrow she would arise, a new being 
given to the world, and, out of the ashes of violated 
faith, blasted hope, sin and disgrace, she would enter 
into another life, where content came to those who 
strove for the right, and beatitude to the clean of 
heart and stalwart of courage. 

Yesterday she had been her old self, a creature of 
moods and fancies, discontented with pleasure, wan¬ 
tonly ambitious, desirous of the best things life had 
to offer of all that mattered most in this world. She 
now began to see that she had never looked ahead of 
her own satisfaction. Whatever she had seen in Kelso 
she could not imagine, but it had sufficed to wreck her 
former home and place upon her the brand of an 


3 o 4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

adulteress. There was no law above the law of God. 
She was never Kelso Wheaton’s wife, but his mistress. 
She belonged only to one man, joined to him before 
the altar of God, and what God hath joined together 
no man could possibly put asunder. It was a huge 
mistake to trample on convictions which had ob¬ 
tained for long years, and to barter her soul for wealth 
and rank, qualities without a name, substances shadowy 
in their existence and temporary at their best. 

Was not that precisely what she had done? She 
had violated the divine law. The doors of her Church 
were shut against her, she no longer belonged to its 
communion. She even felt that the intercessory effect 
of her prayers had lost all influence with God. ' The 
thought haunted her. What should she do! Before 
she could offer any gift must she not herself first re¬ 
pent? And what did repentance mean except leaving 
this sinful house, this other man whom God knew not? 
Her purpose of amendment must be entire, otherwise 
her contrition for the past would be insincere. The 
future must become her real present. 

To pass from yesterday to to-day she needed will¬ 
power, and she perceived how sadly wanting she was 
in this respect. Strength of will was only acquired 
steadily and laboriously out of a succession of small 
efforts, out of the mastery of daily difficulties. Melan¬ 
choly settled upon her as she thought of the arduous 
struggle, and she burst into tears, stifling her sobs in 
the corner of the pillow. Night came on, and with 
it a weariness of mind and spirit. Still she did not 
sleep. Her want of feeling amazed her; she was not 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 305 

frightened at the thought of going to Kelso in the 
morning and telling him of her decision. On the con¬ 
trary, the thought seemed to fascinate her. For the 
first time in months she felt at ease with herself because 
of her utter disgust for what she had done. 

Outside the stars scintillated brightly in the darkness 
—she could see a few of them through the open win¬ 
dow—like the eyes of God looking down upon the just 
and the unjust. Presently a brilliant meteor crossed 
before her vision, glowed splendidly and burned itself 
out. Its existence had been brief, like a life spent on 
earth—for once entering its atmosphere it could not 
endure the terrific pace, and the heyday of its jolly 
excursion was short. She watched its fiery course 
through the inky darkness; then the thread of light 
disappeared and all was still. The transient visitor 
had come and gone like a swallow coursing its way 
through the immeasurable, leaden chaos of the sky, its 
passage a mere matter of memory, adventuresome, 
tragic. 

Weary from the prolonged wakefulness of the night 
she made an effort to sleep, lying on one side, then 
on the other, with her mind as empty of images as she 
could make it. But it was impossible to unburden her 
soul altogether of its terrible load, the consciousness of 
her guilt and its appalling consequences. It was beyond 
human endurance, this remorse. There was no relief 
except to go to Kelso in the morning and to tell him 
all, of her discovery of their very great mistake, and 
her fresh sense of responsibility and duty. He would 
understand how she felt about the essential oneness of 


3 o6 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

matrimony. She would persuade him of her belief that 
her first husband still had a claim upon her, that she 
was still his wife, and the mother of his child. It 
caused her some mental anguish to be forced to this 
somewhat humiliating interpretation, but she met it 
bravely. The very foundation of all future happiness 
seemed fatally shattered, and nothing could be done 
to save the tottering edifice except flight and atonement. 
From yesterday to to-day she had lived a lifetime. 

Some time later she was awakened by her maid. It 
was morning, and the room looked pleasant and cheer¬ 
ful in the splendid sunlight streaming through the open 
windows and doors. Kelso came in to make hurried 
inquiry concerning her health. She answered him with¬ 
out any show of feeling. 

“The trip has been postponed,” he announced, “until 
you are able to travel.” 

“Are you—very much disappointed?” 

“Oh, no! They knew you had been taken ill. They 
left for home yesterday.” 

“Yesterday!” 

“Yes. We thought it best not disturb you. But 
you are all right this morning.” 

“Yes—I am all right!” 

“And you will soon be getting up?” 

“I think so! Does the doctor say I may go out?” 

“I don’t know. I think it will be all right—what 
do you think?” 

“That I am going.” 

After a hurried toilet, she began to feel younger, 
more hopeful. Her indomitable spirit strengthened her 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


307 


to meet every difficulty. Within half an hour she was 
ready to go to the hospital. Inquiry over the telephone 
gave the prosaic information that the patient had had 
a good night and was doing as well as could be ex¬ 
pected. But this did not satisfy the mother; she 
wanted to see the child herself, for she would be ill- 
at-ease until she did. 

The small room at the hospital was severe and 
melancholy, pervaded by a terrifying silence, and a 
strange smell suggestive of influences hostile to human 
life. It contained little furniture save a small, white 
bed, with a white and glass bed-table alongside, a 
dresser and a chair or two. Edith had been warned 
to come in contact with nothing inside the building, 
not even a door knob or a chair. She might visit the 
patient, but only for a short while, and talk to her if 
she were awake but not touch her or come close to her. 

She crept to the foot of the bed and for a long 
time narrowly watched the sleeping form, with its pallid 
face, eyes closed as if in death, mouth open and 
parched. At regular intervals the little breast rose and 
fell, by which she knew that life was still present. She 
noticed that the child appeared very restful, although 
the head w T as slightly drawn back, and she concluded 
that she was not so bad as she had feared. Turning 
to the nurse she said: 

“Is she very sick?” 

“Well, she has a little temperature and her pulse is 
somewhat slow.” 

“Are those good signs?” 


308 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“It is too early yet to say.” 

“How long?” 

“Oh, typhoid runs, usually, from four to five weeks.” 

“Then—anything is liable to happen?” 

“Well, her general condition is good, but it is an 
insidious fever. She will need constant care.” 

Subdued voices sounded, coming, they seemed, from 
outside in the corridor. She recognized them at once. 
It was Dr. Dahill and—and— Blushing she took out 
her handkerchief to wipe the faint moisture from her 
eyes, but it only made her blush the more, until it be¬ 
came like a smoldering agony. She tried to arise, and 
wished to run away, to hide some place. Then she 
heard the doctor close behind her, coming just in time 
to redeem an awkward situation. 

“Why, bless my soul!” he said. “Here is Edith now! 
Did I not tell you she would be here before you!” 

She rose from her chair and tried to smile back 
without any show of embarrassment, but she made a 
clumsy effort of it. Bert was standing before her, 
looking at her dreamily, confusedly, as if making an 
intense endeavor to assure himself it was really she. 
There was tragedy written on his face. 

“Tell her you’re glad to see her, old man,” the sur¬ 
geon counseled, giving him a reassuring slap on the 
back. “She is as broken up over this as you are.” 

Bert came forward and took her hand. 

“This is terrible, terrible!” he said. 

Holding his hand in both of hers she returned the 
greeting. But she could not speak, not even when he 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 309 


walked past her to the bed. The encounter was dread¬ 
ful, for both of them were too amazed, bewildered, 
terrified for words. For a moment she stood watching 
the painful scene, and then without a word she disap¬ 
peared into the corridor. 


XXIII 



I T was just a week later that she met Bert for the 
second time. 

He seemed surprised as she entered the room 
where he had been seated and it was some moments 
before he collected himself enough to rise from his 
chair. Of all places Dr. Dahill’s private office was 
the last he expected to encounter her. But he divined 
quickly enough the purpose of her call. The expression 
of her face, her nervous manner, her speechless attitude 
upon discovering him seated before her, told better 
than words of a troubled state of mind, suddenly re¬ 
solved and as suddenly distracted. 

She had come to the doctor’s office to inquire about 
her child, who did not seem to be getting along any 
too well. She probably felt, as so many mothers 
imagine to be the case when their own are taken from 
them and placed in the care of another, that there was 
something being left undone, and she had decided to 
do what any other mother would have done under the 
circumstances. She wanted to find out for herself if 
there were not some possible detail that was being 
overlooked in the campaign that was being waged 
against death. The doctor would gladly advise her. 
But when she caught sight of Bert she was shocked. 
It did not occur to her to ask what he was doing here. 


310 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


3ii 

She even forgot to wonder whose place she was in, or 
what purpose had brought her thither. The blood 
rushed to her forehead and left it again making her 
unsteady. 

As she stood there, Colman had time to look at her 
before they met, and he was dismayed at the change 
in her. It was a thoughtful woman who now com 
fronted him, of commanding aspect and grave de¬ 
meanor. The youthful freshness of her face, still 
beautiful but blanched with pain, was still there, but 
the mischievous sparkle that was wont to play curiously 
about her liquid eyes, the irresistible manner and light¬ 
heartedness that had once seemed to dominate her 
whole being, had given way to artificial loveliness, a 
concentrated gaze, and sober deportment. Edith was 
indeed a woman, older and less impulsive than the girl 
he had known more than a year ago. This was his 
Edith—his wife, strangely attractive in her modem 
attire. 

“I didn’t know you were here,” she stammered, as 
if her heart stopped beating. 

“Don’t tell me you are sorry,” he replied. 

“I wanted to see Dr. Dahill. He asked me to await 
him here and to make myself acquainted with the per¬ 
son in this room.” 

“You don’t have to do that, do you?” 

“I did not think it was you. I hope you will not 
judge me-” 

“No, of course not. You see, I was not consulted 
either. This amuses him, I daresay. He evidently 
thought he was doing us a favor.” 



312 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


There was a deathly pause; she grew visibly ner¬ 
vous. 

“Won’t you sit down?” he asked. “Just for a 
minute!” 

“Perhaps I had better be going!” 

“On the contrary, I wish you would stay. It has 
been so long since we have really seen each other that 
I am very glad this happened. I confess I have wanted 
to meet you for a long time to find out how we both 
would feel during the interview. It does not strike 
me, just at present, that either one of us seems very 
much dissatisfied.” 

She slowly turned her vague eyes upon him, as she 
crept to a chair. But he did not seem as strange to 
her as she thought he would—different, perhaps more 
sympathetic. 

“It is considerate of you to say that,” she slowly 
said, “wronged as you have been.” 

“Wronged!” he repeated. “You don’t—you don’t 
mean that you have regretted— But no. You were 
not to blame.” 

“It was my fault. But I did not think you would 
mind—not a great deal.” 

“I didn’t. That is, I was happy to know you had 
what you wanted.” 

She lifted her eyes to his impenetrable face, and 
caught the faintest suggestion of a smile. 

“You had your career. I might have proved only 
a hindrance after all.” 

He smiled, this time perceptibly. “That’s a poor 
alibi. But you can’t mean it, not really,” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 313 

[The remark cut her pride and she again raised her 
'eyes. This time she was the one to smile. 

“You are not as proud as you used to be,” he con¬ 
tinued. 

It was on the point of her tongue to flash back, 
“Yes, and more so,” but she knew it would be useless 
to say that. He knew her too well not to detect the 
transformation that had been effected in her, and she 
was unwilling to humble herself still farther. Allusion 
to the past was precisely the one factor she wanted, 
as much as possible, to keep out of their conversation 
and their thoughts, and she could not advert to her 
experiment without leaving herself oper. to the inevi¬ 
table question of her disappointments and disillusions— 
* 

and that way danger lay. There was nothing to be 
derived from this interview if not mutual relief, but 
she did not intend to keep his feeling for her at a 
pleasant temperature at the cost of her own self-respect. 
To confess that she had greatly erred would have made 
him pity her, no doubt; but she did not want his pity. 

“We made many mistakes—you and I,” he went on, 
“mistakes which were wholly unnecessary. I see it all 
too clearly now—better than you, perhaps. You had 
your way of doing things—I had mine. I did not un¬ 
derstand, and it was mostly my fault in not trying to 
understand. Ah, well! It has taught us both a lesson, 
I suppose.” 

“We are all born to suffer, and make mistakes. No 
one is ever satisfied.” 

“I don’t know. It is mostly our own fault if we 


3 i4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


are not resigned to our state in life. They taste not 
the sweets of the day who live only for the morrow.” 

“That was the way with me. I wanted everything. 
I knew what other people had, and I grew impatient. 
I wanted to be prominent, to push up as high as the 
best, to be able to choose the persons I wanted to asso¬ 
ciate with, to make the rest of the world bow before 
me. Ambition was my enemy and I never sensed it. 
Then the opportunity came, and I took it. But my 
veins did not run purple, my culture was not of the 
right kind, my religion—that makes a difference, too. 
And then I saw through everything; the sham society 
I had aspired to, the sham world that surrounded me. 
Anybody could buy a place at the very top of it, but 
that was not what I wanted. That was not happiness. 
You cannot buy happiness!” 

A look of shrewdness came into his eyes. He looked 
at her keenly. Then he exclaimed, impulsively: 

“Why couldn’t we have discussed problems like these 
before, instead of making mysteries of each other?” 

“I don’t know. It was not to be, I suppose.” 

“Do you think that? You are not a fatalist?” 

“I sometimes think I am. But let’s not allude to 
it any more. It is rather late for a post mortem. I 
am more interested in my child, just at present. Do 
you think she is doing well?” 

Bert did not fail to notice the unconscious emphasis 
placed on the “my”; still he gave no sign of it. On 
the contrary he became sympathetic at once. 

“She has contracted a very severe case of typhoid, 

I am told. An erratic fever has set in, and her mind 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 315 

has become delirious. Still the doctor holds out san¬ 
guine hopes.” 

She recoiled slightly. 

“Her mind delirious! Does that mean-?” 

“I don’t know. It may clear up.” 

“Better a thousand times to have her dead 
than-” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Do you think everything is being done for her? 
Is there not some one who specializes on the brain?” 

“I don’t know. Dr. Dahill will do as he thinks best, 
I am sure.” 

“But two heads are better than one. Suggest to him 
the advisability of a consultation. Please ask him! I 
can’t.” 

He looked at her earnestly, penetrated by a sense 
of their strangeness to each other. She looked lonely, 
he thought, and pitiful; but then he suddenly remem¬ 
bered that it was perfectly natural for her to feel this 
way for her child. Her child! Their child! Why 
had she not said so? This was his wife who sat before 
him—his own wife! 

“Very well, then,” he agreed. “You will leave it 
to me ?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “I won’t stay. You will do 
what is best.” 

With this he arose and saw her to the door. But 
he did not close it after her. Instead, he followed 
her deliberately into the hallway and stood there watch¬ 
ing her until she had disappeared from sight around 
the corner of the stairway. His surprise over her 




316 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

coming had been forgotten entirely; only the fact of 
her departure from him, alone and voluntary, remained 
with him. Closing the door he hurried to the window 
and peered through the curtains. She was descending 
the steps in her familiar way, and his eyes found again 
the curves of her light body, the same thin arms and 
sloping shoulders. To be able to recall her even for 
a moment would have been delicious, but this was no 
longer his privilege. A band of steel tightened about 
his heart as he watched her enter the shining limousine 
and heard the heavy door close with a slam. She was 
gone, but he continued to stand there, leaning against 
the window and gazing into the empty street like one 
in dismay. 

“Has she gone?” 

He turned at the sound of the voice. It roused him 
from his lethargy. 

“Yes,” he replied wearily, “she has gone.” 

“Everything went well?” 

“Everything went supremely well.” 

“Was she surprised to see you?” the surgeon con¬ 
tinued. 

“No more so than I was to see her. But she was not 
angry, and I don’t think she regrets it. After all we’re 
not sworn enemies.” 

“No, of course not.” 

“She was very kind to me,” Bert murmured. It was 
a serious remark and it was evident that he was im¬ 
pressed by her manner. He sat down. 

“And you have been nice to her, too! You look as 
if you were satisfied.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 317 

“I am. It did us both good, I think.” 

“Well, I was glad she came. And strange as it 
may seem it was of you I first thought, sitting alone 
in this room, awaiting her, to all appearances. The 
situation was odd, to say the least; so I acted on the 
impulse and ushered her in, not knowing which of you 
would be the first to run out.” 

“You would, perhaps have enjoyed seeing us come 
to blows? But we proved to be very cordial to each 
other, and we separated very good friends.” 

“She will see you again.” 

“I hope so.” 

No one knew better than Dr. Dahill the extent of 
Bert’s feeling for Edith, and no one knew better than 
he the extent of the despair into which his friend had 
fallen as a result of the divorce. Although Colman 
seldom communicated his mental afflictions to any one, 
preferring to harbor within his own soul any agitations 
it suffered and to endure them alone, nevertheless the 
doctor was well enough acquainted with his tempera¬ 
ment to analyze every emotion that beset it. Bert had 
plunged completely into the political game, for the 
purpose of keeping his mind occupied. He wanted to 
forget his wife; it was not his fault if he failed to 
succeed. For a time, indeed, he had seemed carried 
away with the enthusiasm of the fight, but when the 
climax came and robbed him of a momentary delight 
he discovered that he was more miserable than before. 
She was never away from his thoughts. Her form 
was continually projected before him, by night as well 
as day. When he went to Congress it was for her; 


318 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

when he addressed his colleagues her face was before 
him in the gallery; when he led the fight on the floor 
in defense of his measure she was by his side whis¬ 
pering words of encouragement and approbation; and 
when the vote was decided against him in the House 
it was her sympathy he craved more than anything else. 
Another man would have dropped her, but he never 
abandoned the hope of being reunited to her, for he 
felt that she was still his wife in spite of the earthly 
power that had tried to abduct her from him. 

For this reason the doctor considered both of them 
his debtors for the little scheme by which they were 
artfully brought together. It was meet and just and 
honorable that they should see each other, particularly 
at this time of misfortune, but Edith would never in 
her life acquiesce to such a proposal. She would have 
died first, he imagined, rather than face so humiliating 
an ordeal. It was of the essence of adventure for him 
to act as he did—there was no other way to bring them 
together—and he felt satisfied that everything had been 
done for the best by him. 

“She is not happy, Bert. Couldn’t you see it? I 
knew the minute I saw her in this office more than a 
month ago that her gay spirit had fled. Every breath 
was labored and her eyes wore a distant look. It is 
her heart. It aches. She yearns constantly for her 
child, for her home, and you. Of course she will be 
the last person in the world to acknowledge it, but mark 
my words: she regrets a thousand times the step she 
has taken. I do not say she will repent of her action 
to the extent of coming back to you. She is not that 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


3i9 


kind. But I do say she has learned her lesson and 
that life looms before her, a huge failure.” 

“It’s very cruel—cruel and dreadful to have to go 
on like this,” cried Colman, like one devoid of all hope. 

“There is nothing else you can do—is there? Either 
of you don’t want to forget, it seems.” 

“Would you have us forget ? You don’t mean that!” 

“Not unless you can devise some means of improving 
the present impossible situation. Of course you can 
hope—and pray. But she is no longer free.” 

They were silent for a while. At length Bert, clear¬ 
ing his throat with a slight cough, began: 

“She would not come back if she could. Position 
in life matters most with her. She always liked gran¬ 
deur and I was incapable of supplying it-” 

“You were unequally mated from the start,” the 
doctor replied. “Did that ever strike you before? I 
mean this: she was a college girl and was proud of 
the distinction it conferred upon her. She had entree 
to fine circles, she boasted of her privileges. You were 
a self-made man, and were forbidden the rights and 
privileges of her set. Right away there was an inhar¬ 
monious note. It penetrated your lives and saddened 
the melodies that were to issue from your home. A 
woman must have a man she can look up to, for she 
does not want to assume the position as head of a 
house. College women do not make the happiest of 
wives unless they marry men who are their intellectual 
peers. They have learned too much for their own 
personal happiness and for the welfare of their home.” 

“That may be true to some extent,” Bert confessed, 



320 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“but therein lies not the whole blame. It is the indi¬ 
vidual after all, that counts; not the system. We 
couldn't get along, that was all. Our tastes differed. 
Our purposes varied. I was too wrapped up in my 
work to make any sacrifices for her and it was only 
natural for her to long for the time w T hen she might 
be free to come and go as she pleased.” 

“To be free! That's the point. The modern woman 
wants to be free. She is unwilling to make the sacri¬ 
fices of the mothers of the past. To-day, children are 
a nuisance. They hamper the freedom of the mother. 
They require the best years of her life to bear them 
and bring them up. They keep her at home day and 
night. Young girls are unwilling to marry nowadays. 
They want to enjoy life first, they will tell you. Then 
they are willing to take a chance and settle down. 
Wives do not w r ant children unless they are relieved of 
the care of them. When they go away, they are un¬ 
willing to take the children with them. Isn’t this true? 
Isn’t everybody doing it?” 

“What is this—an indictment of American family 
life?” 

“God knows I didn’t mean to preach, but you led 
me into it. It is true, and the system of philosophy 
taught in our colleges is somewhat responsible for these 
irreligious, illiberal, and irresponsible ideas so prev¬ 
alent. We are being taught that we are living in a 
godless world. One of my professors always devoted 
his opening lecture to the thesis that there was no God.” 

“People will call you old-fashioned and narrow¬ 
minded. You are a fanatic.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


321 


“Read the text-books. Read the literature that 
America is devouring. Do you find any mention of 
God, or of morality, or abstemious conduct? There 
is your sex-school, and your radical school and the 
pessimistic school, with the sexual and unclean side of 
lite portrayed to the limit. Read the books! You 
don’t have to argue with me.” 

“What about the motion pictures?” 

“Yes, go to the movies; they will show you how 
it’s done.” 

Colman left Shefford that evening for Washington. 
He was weary and depressed. It was no ordinary 
event to be forced to meet one’s own wife, who hap¬ 
pened also to be the second and legal wife of another 
man. He was not quite himself for the rest of the 
day, and try as he would he could not pull himself 
together. Nothing could convince him that she was 
wholly happy. She seemed to him to be living in a 
shattered fool’s paradise, sad and wistful, and full of 
thoughts she wanted to give utterance to but dared not. 

He was visibly disturbed, too, over the condition of 
his child, Babs, who did not seem to be getting along 
as favorably as she might be expected to. It was 
feared that a form of meningitis had set in, but the 
symptoms were as yet only partly pronounced. The 
typhoid w T as beginning to clear up, it was true, but the 
intermittent fever had remained and she grew more 
and more restless. Worst of all, she had fallen into a 
stupor. 

That night he stopped over in New York and the 
next morning he made a call on Dr. Lynch, an eminent 


322 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

psychiatrist, for the purpose of engaging him for a con¬ 
sultation. The specialist took a very sanguine view of 
the case as described to him, and assured him that such 
cases were not altogether unusual. The comatose state 
would prove to be only a temporary derangement which 
would adjust itself as soon as the inflammation had 
subsided, while the meningitis was a concomitant con¬ 
dition and would have to be treated separately. He 
agreed to go to Shefford and hold a consultation with 
Dr. Dahill Friday morning, which fact Colman wired 
home before he left the city. 

Arriving at his office in the House Building he 
plunged at once into the mass of correspondence that 
had accumulated since his departure. It was absorbing, 
this business of watching out for the interests of his 
constituents, and gratifying; but somehow or other he 
could not get interested. He threw down the bundle 
of letters, and strode about the office humming a tune. 
The paper caught his eye and he picked it up, but cast 
it aside again after a few minutes. At length he bade 
his secretary call Mr. Morrison’s office to inquire for 
him, and, having received the reply that he was there, 
he left the office and hurried over to him. 

“Leo, how do you stand in your State?” he asked. 

“I own it,” came back the ready reply. 

“Good enough! Come, I want to get you interested 
in a project.” And then he unfolded the scheme he 
had in mind. 

It was, in brief, to establish throughout the country 
an Inter-State Bureau for remedial legislation in the 
matter of marriage and divorce. Since Congress had 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 323 

refused to interfere with the rights of the several States 
in this respect, on the ground that their respective legis¬ 
latures were supreme within their own borders for 
enacting proper legislation in this matter, he proposed, 
with the help of the most influential men he could 
command, to establish Bureaus in each of the several 
States for the purpose of bringing before the various 
State legislatures the desired legislation. In this way 
the country at large would be subject to a national 
divorce law operating through the agency of the forty- 
eight individual States. 

“What do you want me to do? Open a matrimonial 
bureau?” 

“Exactly!” 

“Fine chance! I’m not a parson.” 

“That isn’t the point. The Bureau will suggest to 
the Legislature the advisability of a law prohibiting 
absolute divorce in that State. You won’t have to do 
much work. Let them use your name, that is all. 
Surround yourself with clever men; enlist the support 
of every Church Society, Women’s Club, Christian 
Union and Welfare Organization you can find in de¬ 
fense of the work, play on the sentiment of the people 
through paid advertisements; talk to the leaders of the 
two parties.” 

“Say! Who is going to pay all the bills?” 

“Contributions! Take up a collection every time 
you talk.” 

“That’s a good scheme ! Take up a collection! Oy!” 

Almost any one in Congress, Colman reflected, knew 
more about this business than he did; he only wanted 


3 2 4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


to supply the thought, the.responsibility for the move¬ 
ment. Morrison could do more in a day with work 
of this kind than he could do in months. But he was 
a man of eccentric humors—you had to get him in the 
right mood to do anything with him. Bert only wanted 
to interest him just now; later when he had more time 
and was less weary and depressed, he hoped to discuss 
with him at length the outlines of the project. 

He returned to his own office and threw himself into 
a chair thinking of home, of Edith, of Bab, of Dr. 
Lynch. Finally he picked up his paper again and be¬ 
gan to scan the headlines. The following item caught 
his glance. 

“Henry Liggett, a retired broker, suffered a stroke 
of apoplexy at his home to-day—East 61st St. His 
condition is considered grave by the attending physi¬ 
cians, due to his advanced years.” 

He read no more for the moment. Henry Liggett! 
The Liggetts! Betty! It suddenly dawned on him 
who this was. 

Henry Liggett! 


XXIV 


E VELYN WHEATON sat in the seclusion of her 
room, her own cozy little bedroom, done in 
mauve and gray, which she had had made over 
for her own use on the upper floor, and listened to 
Edith’s confession. There could be no concealments be¬ 
tween them, for neither had ever preserved any secrets 
from the other as long as they had lived together. 
Evelyn understood Edith with a sisterly appreciation, 
and had a tender compassion for her. As she heard 
her now, her eyes swam with tears, and in the empty 
silence of the room she grew pensive and sympathetic. 
Finally she leaned forward to lay her hand assuringly 
on Edith’s arm and said to her with cordial feeling: 

“You are not like the rest of us, so do just as your 
conscience tells you, my dear. You know I am going 
to miss you terribly, but I shall never stand in your 
way.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Edith sobbed. “It 

frightens me-” 

“But you cannot be happy-” 

She shook her head, sadly. 

“If you cannot feel at home with Kelso as your hus¬ 
band and us as your dearest friends, then all this is a 
sham, a huge hypocrisy.” 

“You have been so good to me—that is why this 

32s 




326 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

thought of going away overwhelms me. It isn’t that 
I don't want to stay. The temptation is stronger than 
the virtue of doing what is right. But I can’t, I can’t. 
Kelso is not my husband and never can be as long as 
Bert Colman lives.” 

There was another interval of silence. Evelyn was 
lost for something to say. She was well aware that 
she had never favored divorce in the first place, but on 
account of her love for Edith had made generous al¬ 
lowances to cover the crime. She had never reckoned 
with events taking this turn. 

“Of course you must do as you think best,” she said 
now. “Have you thought of the shock it will cause?” 

“I have thought of that. It almost deters me.” 

“The people-” 

“I know it. The papers will glory in it.” 

“It will anger Kelso. He would not have it happen 
for the world.” 

“On the other hand, did he stop to think of that 
when he brought me here? The papers had it then. 
They printed Bert’s picture, and it was just after elec¬ 
tion. But neither of us seemed to mind it. No one 
thought of him, and what he had to go through. Of 
course they put the blame on me. They branded me 
a deserter, an adulteress, and told of my infidelity and 
heartless treatment of my child. They will blame me 
now, I suppose, for her illness.” 

“Don’t say that-” 

“It is true. I am not ashamed of it. Society urged 
me on to a place of eminence and then suddenly flew 
into a rage with me. It has taught me a lesson, a bitter 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 327 

lesson. No one can hope to trample on conventions 
and escape the penalties. The wage of sin is death.” 

“Kelso will feel it keenly,” Evelyn echoed, her blank 
eyes still fastened on the drooping form. “Have you 
told him?” 

“Not yet. I don’t know how I am going to do it.” 

“He suspects you are unhappy-?” 

“Do you think he does? What has he said?” 

“Nothing—to me. But I think he is worried. He 
will never let you go.” 

“He cannot stop me,” said Edith, steadily. “He 
can divorce me, but he cannot force me to return.” 

“You say that because it is the easiest thing to say 
at this moment.” 

“It would be better, wouldn’t it?” 

“Better?” 

“For both of us. He could marry again.” 

“And you?” 

“Oh, there is nothing for me.” 

She looked away wistfully, clasping and unclasping 
her hands on her lap, out through the windows into the 
garden beyond. Her future was before her with the 
trees and the flowers, an uncertain and intangible real¬ 
ity, with nothing definite to hope for or cling to. Only 
the w r orld, the wide, boundless w T orld—and that was 
all. 

“I w r onder if you w T ould be able to return to your 
first husband!” Evelyn murmured. 

“He would not take me back. He could not. I’ve 
met him. He w r as wonderfully sympathetic, interest- 



328 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

ing, attentive, but he could never trust me again. You 
could not blame him.” 

“Still, if you were free-!” 

“Free! Ah, what meaning is bound up with that 
term! Free, from what! Not from the tortures of 
the soul which matter most! If it were only possible 
to get away from self, from this serpent that gnaws 
me, that sends his poison throughout my body and 
soul. For me no surcease is possible except in death— 
except in death. And I must make adequate amends 
before I die. Adequate amends.” 

She repeated the last words. Evelyn’s question, 
“Won’t you remain in Shefford?” aroused her. 

“Never!” she replied. “I couldn’t face those people 
again. They scorn me now, and I detest them! No, 
I shall hide myself where no one shall ever find me.” 

“But how can you live—alone—penniless-?” 

“I shall work.” 

“Is that necessary? Kelso, I am sure, will see that 
you are amply provided for-” 

“No! No! I would not want that. The clothes 
that I shall wear, but no money—nothing. I could not 
in conscience. It would be the same as staying.” 

These words, uttered calmly, rang in Evelyn's ears 
and added to her discomfort. It seemed to her that 
her very love for her sister-in-law and her efforts to 
preserve an unruffled domesticity were to turn to evil. 
The Wheaton name had already been tarnished by one 
matrimonial tangle, and it hurt her pride to have to 
let the public know that the venture had turned out a 
sorry one. On the other hand she could not fail to 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


3 2 9 


admire Edith’s belief in her convictions. If her ideas 
concerning matrimony were different from theirs it 
would be unjust to compel her to live the life of a hypo¬ 
crite the rest of her days. If she were blameworthy 
at all it was for perpetrating the wrong in the first 
place. 

“Have you thought of your child? What will you 
do with her?” she asked. 

A faint cry escaped Edith’s lips, but she suppressed 
the emotion and wiped the tears from her eyes. 

“If God would only take her!” she breathed, and 
lapsed into meditation again. 

“You can’t very well go away and leave her. Stay 
here until she recovers. It is the right thing to do.” 

“Yes, I know—I have thought of that. But a good 
end cannot possibly justify a bad means.” 

“You have others to consider-” 

“I have considered everything. I am doing what I 
hope is for the best.” 

For the hundredth time that month Edith turned 
over in her mind this problem. Why did she not feel 
more keenly the crisis of the tragedy through which 
she was passing? The change of heart that had over¬ 
taken her as a result of the mental struggle was not, 
as she first surmised, a sudden transformation made by 
sorrow, but a process of gradual evolution begun over 
six months before. All unknown to her pleasant, easy¬ 
going nature there had lain within her germs of cour¬ 
age, self-sacrifice and honesty that suffering and medita¬ 
tion only now awakened into active life. It was not 
the metamorphosis that was sudden, but the apprehen- 



330 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

sion of it. There had been no planning or considera¬ 
tion of the nature or the effect of circumstances. It 
was only after events had taken place that she recog¬ 
nized the value of them and found herself a new 
woman. Fresh faults that she never recognized before 
came to light, fresh powers were perceived, and a fresh 
change of sentiment occurred to give her a new world 
to occupy her thoughts and afford her a new and 
strange pleasure. 

A wealth of self-revelation that truly startled her 
had come through her first husband. It occurred dur¬ 
ing the interview in the doctor’s office, when a blinding 
light, like a flash of lightning, penetrated the fog of 
self-deception with sufficient brilliancy to reveal the dis¬ 
content, bitterness, and lavish selfishness of which she 
was composed. Silently but eloquently his presence re¬ 
buked her. She felt what she should have been. In 
his dignity she saw only her own smallness, in his suc¬ 
cess her failure. His life was a prolonged act of suffer¬ 
ing, combined with ceaseless work for others. His 
cross was bitter and his way strewn with thorns, but he 
never despaired. He bestowed a look of pity on her 
and gave her a pledge of his pardon and love, a mag¬ 
nanimity that w r as a judgment. She compared her life 
with his and it suffered by comparison. She came into 
his presence a cow r ard and a weakling, but she left it 
self-revealed and self-condemned. 

The conflict that loomed before her threatened to 
be ceaseless, a herculean struggle for moral greatness, 
but she prayed for strength to be enabled to rise above 
her arduous tasks and perilous tribulations and be the 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 331 

slave of none. Her plan of campaign must be strategic. 
Certain thoughts which had become habitual must first 
be driven away. Comforts of life to which she had 
become accustomed must be renounced. She must leave 
her splendid home and escape into the unknown and 
unfriendly world. Here she foresaw difficulties and 
privations and poverty, but this was the goal for which 
she was aiming, and to the consummation of which she 
was ready to dedicate the remaining years of her life. 
She could not remain in Shefford. She could not re¬ 
turn to her former home because of the mandates of 
the law. New York was the only haven of refuge, the 
city of opportunities and catastrophes, where she could 
be successfully swallowed up in the maelstrom of hu¬ 
man currents, sucked beneath the waves of oblivion. 
To New York then she would go and bury her identity. 

Westlawn held no further charms for her. It was 
but a mausoleum, a chamber of pale ghosts and dreams, 
perfect in taste and culture, complete in its collection 
of curtains patterned with flowers and forms, tapestry 
furniture, mahogany chairs, pictures covering the walls 
—but exceedingly dull of atmosphere and spirit. Not 
even Evelyn, with her show of comprehension and sym¬ 
pathy could command sufficient interest. Kelso was a 
hindrance, rather than a help. When she came down¬ 
stairs, as she did with Evelyn some few minutes later, 
and found him sorrowing over the death of his pet 
Airedale she could not feel sorry for him. She re¬ 
gretted the loss of the dog, but she could not bring 
herself to share his owner’s emotion. 

Nestor, it appeared, had wandered out into the high- 


332 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


way and had been struck by a passing automobile. 
Charles had found the body tossed to one side of the 
road and, bringing it in, summoned the master. It was 
pitiable to behold Kelso standing over the remains of 
his pet, his eyes dim. He passed his hands along the 
inert, warm bulk, and upbraided the chauffeur for per¬ 
mitting him to escape from the premises. He rebuked 
him savagely for failing to obtain the number of the 
car that had killed him. With a pathetic gaze he stared 
in silence at the poor dead animal. He stood so for 
several seconds, oblivious of all about him, reflecting 
on the loss of his friend. Suddenly he turned and 
walked away, but stopped in his tracks to address a 
word to his man: 

“We’ll have to bury him. Wait! I'll bury him my¬ 
self. Take him around to the back! We’ll put him 
in a box and bury him in the garden.” 

They laid him in a corner of the garden in the shade 
of an umbrella tree. Charles supplied the box which 
Evelyn hastily lined with a piece of satin torn from an 
old dress and Kelso dug the hole and laid the remains 
in place himself, covering them carefully with dirt and 
replacing the sod in the form of a mound. The whole 
ceremony was observed with the greatest solemnity, 
no one breathing a word until its conclusion. Finally 
Kelso said: 

“I suppose that will be the end of us all. Dust to 
dust, with only a mound of earth for a memorial. Life 
is a strange riddle. You are here to-day and impris¬ 
oned in the bowels of the earth to-morrow. And 
there’s the end of you.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 333 

“Except for one’s soul,” Edith reminded him. 

“Had this dog a soul?” 

“A vital principle, perhaps. No spiritual soul.” 

“Where is it?” 

“It ceased to function when he died. Just as the 
soul of the tree when it dies, the soul of the animal.” 

“But our soul lives on? It is different, then.” 

He shook his head. 

That same night Edith broached to him the matter 
of her going, telling him with much feeling how greatly 
she regretted this painful duty, impressing upon him 
with all the force at her command the necessity of sep¬ 
aration as the only possible relief for her miserable 
condition. He listened to her, at first too surprised to 
reply, but before she had quite finished his mood 
changed, and he grew agitated. His puffed eyes bulged 
as if they were being forced from their sockets, his 
flabby jaw dropped, and his face turned scarlet from 
the furious emotion that surged within him. Fright¬ 
ened she drew away, and went to the other side of the 
table. 

“Are you mad? Who ever heard of such a thing?” 

“I mean it, Kelso. It is the only thing,” she pleaded 
with all her soul. 

“Do you suppose the law will permit you to come in 
and go off whenever you like?” 

“Lots of people do it-” 

“Lots of people don’t do it. What nonsense! My 
word, you’ve lost all your self-respect.” 

“I can’t help it. I must do something. I can’t stay 
here any longer,” she muttered. 



334 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Somebody has been poisoning your mind, priming 
you for mischief-” 

“No, Kelso; that is untrue.” 

“What ails you, anyway? Haven’t you everything 
you want? Of course, if it hurts you to look at me— 
well—take a room upstairs, all by yourself. Pretend 
you are my wife, at any rate. I’ll never bother 
you-” 

“I couldn’t do that. That w r ould be dishonest to 
both of us. The plain fact is this: I can’t feel married 
to you at all. There was no divorce. We have been 
living in adultery all the while.” 

“Adultery! Who said that?” 

“It is the truth. No power on earth is able to dis¬ 
solve marriage. It may grant separation, but not di¬ 
vorce. I am Bert Colman’s wife.” 

“Nice time to be telling me so. Why didn’t you say 
that a year ago?” 

“I should have known better; the sin is on my shoul¬ 
ders. You are not to blame.” 

Her hands had dropped to the table, and she stood 
with lowered eyes, nervously running her forefinger 
around the edges of a book. 

“Well, I’d like to say this to you. I sympathize 
with you, but I am placed in very considerable embar¬ 
rassment myself. The question is whether we are mar¬ 
ried or not. If we are, you are sworn to obey me and 
I forbid you to leave this house; if we are not—well, 
it strikes me as pretty queer, your living with me for 
the past year-” 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 335 

“It was wrong—wrong. You see I could not marry 
you because I still am the wife of another.” 

“Hell! You were divorced from him-” 

“There is no divorce, absolutely speaking. Mar¬ 
riage is a sacrament, not a mere civil contract. The 
State has no jurisdiction over the Sacraments.” 

Her eyes darkened; she expected an indignant re¬ 
joinder. But he turned with a sigh, and sought a chair. 
She eyed him furtively until he was ready to speak. 

“That’s your way of looking at it—but where do I 
come in? If everybody thought as you do there would 
be a fine mess, wouldn’t there! I have a right to my 
point of view, and I want to tell you that my way of 
thinking is shared by everybody else in the world, ex¬ 
cept yourself. If we could not marry legally do you 
suppose the law would stand aside and let us live to¬ 
gether as we have been living? You’re out of your 
mind. You’re insanely jealous, if you want to know it.” 

“No, Kelso; it is not that,” she replied dispassion¬ 
ately. “Jealousy does not enter into this at all. I am 
honest when I say that. Neither do I mind what you 
do, for you don’t mean anything to me. You are not 
my husband, and never have been.” 

“What?” he cried, starting from his chair. “Not 
your husband! What have I been then-” 

“Please!” she remonstrated. “Don’t say it. But 
you do understand, don't you? If you only knew how 
I have suffered, morning and night, in mind and body, 
with remorse for the past. A thousand times have I 
wished to undo what was done, so as to escape it all. 
But there is no escape except in death. If I thought 




336 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

there was no hereafter I would go on, cheerfully. But 
I can’t! I can’t! There is only one thing to do—I 
must leave.” 

“Where will you go?” 

“I don’t know. There is no place for me to go. 
No one wants me.” 

“Listen, woman, what will everybody think when 
they hear of this separation-?” 

“I have never thought of others-” 

“But I have. Every newspaper in the land will print 
the story. I shall be kept a prisoner in my own house. 
I simply cannot go out and face people.” 

“You can divorce me-” 

“Ha! So that is what you are looking for—to go 
back to him! I might have thought there was a nigger 
somewhere in the woodpile. But I shall spoil your little 
game. You won’t get the chance to go back to him. 
You will have to be my wife whether you want to stay 
here or not and you will have to carry my name with 
you wherever you go. Understand! You belong to 
me in the eyes of the law, and the law has a long arm.” 

Her eyes clung to him desperately, fearfully. The 
table stood between them, but neither made any show 
of moving. 

“Please!” she pleaded. “I don’t want to go back to 
him. He wouldn’t take me back even if I wanted him 
to. It is peace I w T ant, and contentment. I was only 
thinking of you when I suggested divorce.” 

“You are kind and thoughtful, aren’t you! But you 
are not nearly so clever as you think. What made you 
sore was my refusing to let you bring that kid here. 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 337 

I know you have been running up to that place every 
chance you got. Your interest was centered there more 
than here. I saw this coming for a long time. That 
rumpus you raised with Mrs. Liggett was part of the 
game and I saw through it at once. Well, I want to 
tell you that you have fooled nobody but your own self. 
Take a sleep and get over this grouch. You will feel 
better in the morning; and make up your mind then that 
you are going to stay right here. I really cannot afford 
to let you go. Later we may get together and agree 
upon some sort of separation. You can bring suit 
against me in the proper way. But this idea of run¬ 
ning out in the street like a thief is ridiculous. And 
furthermore, you mind your own damned business 
around here and let my guests alone. If I choose to 
go out with any of them that is entirely my affair. 
If I want you to come I’ll tell you. I’m capable of 
managing my own affairs.” 

She did not wait to hear more, but turned and left 
him. He made no attempt to follow her and she went 
straight upstairs to Evelyn’s room where she told her 
all. It grew increasingly clear to both of them that his 
interference must be thwarted. Evelyn promised to 
discourage him from further intervention, and gave her 
word to do all in her power to assist her in her depar¬ 
ture. Edith was not prepared to accept so generous 
an overture of sympathy from her sister-in-law, but 
Evelyn hurried her into her own room and bade her 
make her final adjustments that night before retiring. 
Edith turned away with a heavy heart, and spent the 
next two hours destroying old letters, writing out 


338 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

checks In payment of her accounts, fixing her affairs, 
clothes, books, and personal property in order. It was 
late when she put out the light and went to bed, but the 
last night of her career in Westlawn passed painfully 
slow. She lay awake and worried about the morrow 
and its mysterious contingencies. 


XXV 


T HE following morning Edith took advantage of 
Kelso’s early departure for Shefford to effect her 
escape from the portals of Westlawn. It was 
his custom to drive into town every Wednesday morn¬ 
ing to confer with his agents on matters that pertained 
to his real and personal holdings. Not that she feared 
him in the least, for she knew that he would never 
stand in the way of her going once he was convinced 
of her determination, but she thought it best to follow 
the line of least resistance and depart quietly while he 
was absent. 

It was a solemn parting that took place in the tiny, 
marble vestibule, with Evelyn and Doris shedding most 
of the tears. Edith, too, was sad at heart, but she re¬ 
sisted obdurately every show of distress. She was 
pained with the thought that it was her own hand which 
was stabbing them so cruelly, but she derived strength 
from the consciousness that she was doing what was 
right, and no amount of poignant regret for present dis¬ 
comfort could alter or deter her from performing it. 
Sovereign atonement for the past, love for her child 
steeled her to abide by her decision, and she took her 
leave as though she were setting off on a pleasant 
journey. 

What would Kelso do when he returned and found 


339 


340 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

her gone? This thought crept into her mind and occu¬ 
pied it. Was this her return for his generous devotion 
—this the end of days of affectionate intercourse and 
gay amusement? He was impetuous enough to be sur¬ 
prised into revenge, but Evelyn had told her not to fear. 
His was a w T himsical nature and in a few weeks she 
would be allowed to slip from his memory as readily 
as he had permitted her to suffer in the past from his 
lack of attention. With Henry Liggett out of the way 
it might prove very convenient for both of them to find 
cause for divorce. But Henry Liggett w T as not dead 
and there was no telling: he might repent of his hasty 
show of temper and succeed in persuading her to return 
to him. As she hurried down the -winding path it was 
with the hope that she would never have to retrace her 
steps. She wanted to leave the splendid home and all 
that it signified as completely as if it never had been. 

She boarded a trolley-car. It was the first time she 
had ever left West Shefford in a trolley-car. She w T ent 
straight to the hospital and found that Babs was rest¬ 
ing comfortably. She was seemingly brighter, as if the 
malignant forces of disease had yielded to scientific 
treatment. A fervor glow T ed in the whole aspect of 
the mother as she stood at the bedside and beamed 
upon her convalescing child. Tier rapture was visible. 
She looked into the beautiful eyes of her beloved with 
a glance that was at once fond and sad. There seemed 
to exude from the bedside a fragrance, rich and de¬ 
lightful, for it was evident the fever had run its course. 
Edith felt no more doubt or fear. She wanted to take 
her child and crush it in her arms, but dared not. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


34i 


“Babs, dear,” she said, “you are better?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Thank God! You don’t feel sick—at all?” 

“No, mother.” 

“Did the doctor say you would soon go home?” 

“I don’t know, mother.” 

The tinge of despair that had colored Edith’s man¬ 
ner upon her entrance, vanished; she became gay, and 
appeared to derive sweet refreshment from her visit. 
She talked about things as simple as the daylight, of 
the summer clouds, and asked Babs repeated questions 
about her pains and aches, how good the doctor was to 
her, how she liked her nurse, her room, the hospital. 
Within a week, she conjectured, the patient would be 
discharged and returned to the Academy and it was 
with this consoled feeling that she eventually took her 
departure. Then she did a rash thing. Bending over 
she took Babs in her arms and kissed her fervently, 
passionately on cheeks and lips, unmindful of the fact 
that she herself was courting danger by that very heed¬ 
less act. When she did take her leave it was with in¬ 
definable reluctance, like one who had caught a first 
glimpse of sunlight, and wondered at the reflections of 
earth and sky which were suddenly flung upon her 
vision. 

At first she thought of going direct to Dr. Dahill’s 
to learn something definite of Babs’ case, but to a per¬ 
son circumstanced as she was now, any indiscreet action 
would render her situation extremely perilous. He 
would be sure to extract from her information she was 
loath to part with, and she could not very well misrep- 


342 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

resent facts with a free and easy conscience. For the 
success of her plan secrecy was essential. It would 
never do to encounter anybody just at present, when 
her powers of decision were likely to be formed one 
way or the other. 

She, therefore, decided to leave Shefford as soon as 
possible. She feared the city, and because she feared 
it she despised it. It was an apathetic town, neither 
ancient nor modern, but curiously situated midway be¬ 
tween the provincial and the metropolitan stage. It 
had its skyscrapers and its one-way streets, its aviation 
fields and its district school system. But outsiders ad¬ 
mired it and this made its people arrogant. They con¬ 
tinually maintained its dignity, resisted the invasion of 
extremists and ultra-liberals, combated territorial ex¬ 
pansion, and affected an air of intellectual self-suffi¬ 
ciency. 

A six hours’ ride brought her to New York. It was 
late afternoon and a mist of brightness floated over the 
city like a back stage curtain done in silver and lace. 
Tall buildings loomed ahead, tracing regular outlines 
against this scintillating background, their vast facades 
glimmering with squares of light as if their hearts had 
caught fire and were blazing out of the windows. This 
was the city of her dreams, elusive in its charms, tena¬ 
cious in its grandeur, the true and only heaven for 
those who, chained down by the weight of circum¬ 
stances, never hope to leave it, the cavern of moral tur¬ 
pitude for others who have bargained their souls with 
Prince Beelzebub for the innumerable messes of pot¬ 
tage served within its borders. The train plunged be- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 343 

neath the surface into the very bowels of this city of 
stone and Edith experienced a foolish palpitation of the 
heart at the thought of the earth and rocks above her 
head. She longed for the surging traffic, the crowded 
streets, the grinding noises. She wanted to be free and 
to be alone, as if loneliness would prove to be the 
nepenthe for her sorrows. 

Job hunting was a fresh experience for Edith, but she 
was sure there would be no great difficulty in obtaining 
a place commensurate with her capabilities and ideals. 
After all, she was better equipped than thousands of 
other women who had made similar journeys to the 
city in search of careers. She had her college degree 
to warrant her ability to perform the duties of a book¬ 
keeper or private secretary in one of the downtown 
offices. Such a position would afford her the income 
she needed to enable her to live decently and with 
comfort. 

The next morning her way led down the broad street 
famous for its midnight revels and notorious places 
of amusement, to that more famed square where re¬ 
laxation from trade and traffic is never known. Tall 
buildings raised their gray heads aloft and stared at her 
offensively. Merchandise, attractively displayed in in¬ 
numerable shop windows along the avenue, caught her 
eye, but not her fancy. At certain intervals narrow 
doorways interrupted the procession of windows with 
brilliant brass signs calling her attention to the location 
of countless business offices sequestered on the upper 
floors, but she passed them by. On a far corner a pre¬ 
tentious banking establishment with extensive windows 


344 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

sheltering the front and side attracted her and she hur¬ 
ried her steps. Passing courageously through the re¬ 
volving doors she entered and went straight to the 
office. 

“May I speak with the treasurer ?” she inquired 
crisply. 

“Yes,” a thick set man with heavy black hair and a 
square protruding jaw replied as he turned on his 
swivel-chair to face her. “What can I do for you?” 

“I am Mrs. Colman,” she said, faltering for the first 
time. “I am seeking employment-” 

“Sorry, madam, but there is nothing I can do for 
you.” 

That was all. Dejected, she turned and retraced her 
steps. It dawned upon her that it might not be the easy 
matter she supposed to procure just what she w T anted in 
a city where there were thousands of applicants like 
herself for every job, and where personal associations 
entered mostly into the transaction. Therein lay the 
difference between getting a trial and a refusal. But 
she was not disheartened. All she hoped for was the 
start; she was confident of the future. 

She turned aside at the next corner and came to a 
doorw r ay where hung a sign “Help Wanted.” She 
paused to consider, and going inside took the elevator 
to the twelfth floor where was a large waist house. A 
sleek young man stood before her as she entered and 
greeted her pleasantly. 

“I have come to seek employment,” she said. 

“Yes! Your name, please?” 

“Mrs. Colman.” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT' 


345 


“What have you done in this line, Mrs. Colman?” 
he inquired in a matter-of-fact tone. 

“lou mean—where have I worked before?" 
“Exacdy! Have you any references?" 

“None! Ilou see I have just come to New York to 
find work. I am a widow." 

“We can put you to work on the machines. You 
would have to learn, of course, for two weeks without 


“Is there no office work-” 

He shook his head." 

“Is that all?” 

“It is machine hands we want to-day.” 

She thanked him and departed. 

Already the fresh elasticity of her spirits began to 
wear}’, and the future looked perplexing. It was evi¬ 
dent that it was not a question of “What can you do?" 
but “What have you done?" that mattered. Influence 
and personal connection were superior to personality 
and ability in obtaining positions. Of what significance 
was intellectual power and capacity for achievement to 
minds that knew nothing but the artificial system of 
which business was built? It was implied in every 
doorway and each brick of the houses. Scores of pale¬ 
cheeked, slender girls passed her, disturbing her 
thoughts with the multiplicity of their short, dry laughs. 
Shopgirls, no doubt, or seamstresses lately emerged 
from such lofts as she had just left! Their very ex¬ 
pressionless faces indicated their abject servitude and 
w*ant of personality, as if they had been drawn, all their 
lives, away from human contacts and normal associa- 




346 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

tions. She watched them as they crowded into one of 
the restaurants on the avenue for their midday lunch, 
which reminded her that she had better imitate their ex¬ 
ample. Instinctively she followed them. 

She crept into a corner and selected a table where 
sat a pretty, whitehaired woman. She came face to 
face with her as she pulled back the chair and caught 
the sparkle of her eye. She saw her own self twenty 
years hence in the form of this neighbor, staring fixedly 
into the past, a forced calm written on her face, a 
valiant sparkle in her eye. She smiled at her and 
bowed. It would be wonderful to be enabled to talk to 
one that looked so equally lonely. 

“Pardon me!” Edith politely inquired, “but are you 
familiar with New York?” 

An amiable smile stole over that calm face which 
made Edith’s heart beat wildly for joy. “I guess I 
am,” came the response. “I have been living here for 
over thirty years.” 

“Is it hard to get used to—at first? I don’t seem 
to know just what to do-” 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Since last night. I came looking for work.” 

“Did you find any?” 

“No. I guess it is not so easy to land the kind of 
a job I want. I should prefer office work.” 

“There should be plenty of that kind available if 
you knew just where to go. Where are you living?” 

“At a hotel at present, but I intend to select a nice 
furnished room as soon as I get work. I have searched 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


347 

all morning without success, and have come to the con¬ 
clusion that influence counts a great deal.” 

“That is true. Then you have to preserve the fic¬ 
tion that you are fairly independent. You may not 
obtain what you want at first, and may have to take 
w T hat you can get until your turn comes. It may mean 
but a few dollars a week and living in close quarters, 
but after a while you will get accustomed to it and you 
won’t live anywhere else. The city will have swallowed 
you whole and entire.” 

“I don’t think I should mind where I went to live, 
providing it was respectable, nor should I care how 
hard I had to work. But I must begin, and once I 
have begun I shall rise above the ordinary.” 

The frail, white-haired woman looked at her with a 
steady, fixed gaze for several seconds that seemed to 
Edith like hours. Twice she dropped her eyes to look 
at the knife she was idly turning over and over beside 
her plate. Then she said slowly: 

“I don’t know who you are, but you look all right. 
I have a room that I usually share with some one else. 
My room-mate has left the city. Would you care to 
come and live with me?” 

Edith, too, felt apprehensive about entrusting herself 
to an absolute stranger, but this woman looked so lonely 
and her eyes were so frank and honest that her heart 
went out to her. 

“But—I don’t know you,” she faltered. 

“You can trust me. My name is LaField. My hus¬ 
band has been dead for more than eleven years. I live 


348 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

on Thirty-seventh Street. You can try it, and if you 
don’t like it you can leave whenever you wish.” 

“That would please me, I am sure. And I think we 
will have much in common. But I must first procure 
employment.” 

“Jobs are not difficult to get in New York if you 
know how to get them. But they are suspicious of you 
when you are alone and friendless. Let some one 
speak for you and the rest is easy. If you like I shall 
ask for you in my department. The pay is not much, 
but it will be something until you succeed in bettering 
yourself. Besides, it will furnish you with a reference, 
and that is the first requisite. You haven’t any ref¬ 
erences, have you?” 

Edith acknowledged that she had none. 

“Well, I shall do my best for you. In the meantime 
you might continue to look around for yourself. Meet 
me here to-night at six o’clock. What is your name?” 

“Colman. Mrs. Colman.” 

“You are a widow, too!” 

Edith dropped her head, by which she understood 
that the other would inevitably draw her own conclu¬ 
sion. When they parted later it was with a feeling of in¬ 
timate familiarity such as comes to those who, for want 
of living in human households with genuine human be¬ 
ings, have never truly appreciated the fragrance of 
true friendship until the perfume of its breath had 
floated into their lives. 

Edith experienced no pronounced reaction against 
the program of life outlined for her by her practical 
confidante—department store .employment, penurious 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


349 


habits of economy, poky rooming quarters. On the 
contrary she welcomed the comfortless prospect with 
an enthusiasm seldom displayed. She would prove to 
herself and the world that she could do things worth 
while. Out in the sunny street she strolled along mus¬ 
ingly, totally oblivious of the warmth of the afternoon, 
regardless of the bustle of the busy thoroughfare, the 
crowds of pushing pedestrians walking about her, over 
her in their mad endeavor to get on their hurried way. 
New York was still her fairy land, with its romances 
of big jobs and prosperous situations waiting just 
around the corners. She thrilled with a sensation of 
profound emotion, full of joy and exultation, as she 
glanced up at the burnished domes and purple pinnacles 
of the beautiful buildings, and wondered what success 
and fortune awaited her behind those stout walls. 

From the chimes nearby there came the melody 
of an hour which caused her to turn her head in re¬ 
sponse to the sweet call. A pretentious structure of 
rough granite confronted her. It was the home of a 
great insurance company, and housed thousands of 
workers beneath its spacious roof. She decided to 
make application. 

“What have you done?” followed her question. 

“I have never worked before,” she confided to the 
little brisk man, who scarcely raised his eyes to her. 

“Hm!” he commented, poring over the many 
papers that lay in disorder on the desk. “And what 
do you expect us to do for you?” 

“Well,” she said, summoning all her courage, “I 


350 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

have had a good education. I have earned an A.B. and 
I can write a good hand.” 

“Know anything about bookkeeping?” 

“No; but I am sure I could pick it up easily-” 

“Stenography?” 

She shook her head. 

“Have you any references?” 

“I can get them if you think it necessary-” 

“Sorry. There is nothing here for you-” 

“Could you not give me a trial-?” 

He shook his head negatively. She withdrew. 

A violent shower came up and caught her unpre¬ 
pared. It so happened that she was passing a church 
at the time and it invited her inside to escape the in¬ 
evitable wetting. No sooner, however, had she crossed 
the threshold, than she realized that she was at home. 
Everything looked so familiar, the altars, the statues, 
the windows. Kneeling, she tried to pray, but the 
words would not come. The depressing thought forced 
itself upon her that she was unworthy, that her sin 
still hung heavy upon her, that her soul was shrouded 
in a garment of the darkest hue, and she would not be 
heard. An inspiration came to her. Her duty was 
quite clear. She must unburden her mind, confess her 
past, obtain divine sanction for her purpose of amend¬ 
ment. Now, of all times, she needed God’s mercy— 
but how could she expect God to be merciful to her 
unless she made a direct appeal to Him! Seek and you 
shall find. Rising from the pew she braved the fury 
of the storm and sought the rectory. In ten minutes 






THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 351 

she was back again in the church, kneeling in the con¬ 
fessional. 

Prayer was no longer difficult; it never is when the 
soul is in harmony with its Maker. Heretofore she 
had been viewing the tapestry of life from the wrong 
side, because her contrition wanted earnestness to make 
it wholesome and salutary, and she saw only the gro¬ 
tesque and distorted images of her own abnormal crea¬ 
tion. But now the process was reversed. She no 
longer shrank from sorrow and calamity. She dis¬ 
trusted herself, and did not hope for success through 
her own powers. She committed everything to Divine 
Providence. A world of content opened before her; 
she was satisfied. Prosperity could not elevate nor ad¬ 
versity depress her. Her very weakness became her 
greatest source of strength, enabling her to rise above 
her irresolute nature and prepare for better things. 

When she took up her abode that night with her 
friendless companion, she was surprised to learn how 
cheerfully she entered into it. The severe, white beds, 
the chair or two resting against the sides of the room, 
the plain marble-topped table with the gas-lamp upon 
it, the old fashioned dressers, were like phantoms, col¬ 
orless, indeed, but of more enduring reality and sub¬ 
stantial solidity than the objects of latest fashion and 
design she had turned her back upon. Mrs. LaField 
proved to be a delightful room-mate. At the sight of 
her pretty smile and looks Edith’s apathy was melted. 
She removed her hat and laid it on the bed, not sorry 
she had no books to turn to, or no piano with which to 
relax her mind and drive away dull care. It was going 


352 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

to be splendid, this living together, and the two seemed 
so congenial that their very laughter had a note of 
kindness. 

“I hope you will soon get accustomed to this,” said 
Mrs. LaField. “It does seem strange at first-” 

“But I am going to like it,” Edith protested. “And 
I know we are going to be perfectly happy!” 

“Did you find work?” 

“No. But I am not discouraged-” 

“Would you care to begin to-morrow?” 

“To-morrow! Where?” 

“With me. I found out to-day there was a place on 
our floor-” 

“Do you know,” Edith reminded her, “you haven’t 
yet told me where you work.” 

“Mitchell’s!” 

“The Big Store?” 

“Yes. I am on the sixth floor with the lamps. You 
will be on the hardware.” 

“Selling hardware!” 

“It isn’t hard. In the meantime you can look 
around.” 

Selling hardware! Was it for this she had given up 
home and comfort, all her happiness? 





XXVI 


T HAT it should come to this—a clerk in Mitchell’s 
Store! It was to her wonted habitude as a 
dainty flower to the Sahara! If this were a 
triumph over her earlier self she did not underrate it, 
but saw truly in the fancy-dispelling morn, the com¬ 
mencement of melancholy days that were to try her 
sorely with their long hours and constant service. 
Where were her vanity now, her vaulting ambitions, 
her arrogance, her conceit? Looking back on these 
months that had passed she saw how she had let foolish 
fancy and still more foolish hope mislead her. She 
was about to pay dearly for her misadventure. This 
was the reversal of that unnatural life, this the result of 
that inevitable dualism that bisects nature, where every 
excess has its defect, every sweet its sour, every evil 
its good. 

She fancied that she appeared most self-conscious 
as she took her place behind the hardware counter to 
begin her duties. Everything assumed a strange ap¬ 
pearance, the shelves, the fixtures, the extensive floor, 
but they failed to arouse her. She listened mechani¬ 
cally to the explanation of the process of salesmanship 
and yielded only part of her attention to the interpreta¬ 
tion of the mystic symbols indicated on the sale check. 
Everything must be carefully dusted the first thing in 

353 


354 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

the morning, she was told; the various articles arranged 
in an orderly manner in their respective places, the stock 
replenished from the storeroom and early customers 
cared for. Little by little she became interested in these 
details, and she quickly mastered the methods of sale 
without being obliged to spend several tedious hours 
in apprenticeship. But her thoughts were far away, 
lingering over distant scenes, dwelling in comfort and 
with unmatched forms, sharing ten thousand purer 
joys that knew no equivalent, praising what was lost, 
and making the remembrances dear. 

“You want to keep your shelves filled,” one of her 
associates counseled her. “If you don’t the ‘head 
gink’ will come around and call you.” 

“Yes, I will,” Edith cheerfully acquiesced. 

“And whatever you do, don’t let a customer get away 
from you. Sell ’em something. Can you shoot a bunch 
of talk?” 

Edith smiled and assured her she would do her best. 

“And don’t let any of them give you back talk. Some 
of these dames come in here and make you sick. They 
think you don’t know nothing. But just spring a few 
wise things on them about the extra quality of the 
goods, and they won’t even get you. They don’t know 
what they are buying except the price. Show the best 
you have first. That makes ’em think it is the goods. 
And listen, cheery, don’t charge nothing without calling 
the ‘head gink.’ He has to sign the check before it 
goes to the office. A lot of these birds come in here 
and try to open accounts. First thing you know you 
are called upstairs.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


355 


Edith thanked her for the friendly words, and set 
about to arrange her stock, piling screws into even por¬ 
tions in the several compartments; running her fingers 
over hinges, door knobs, padlocks, and arranging them 
neatly; replacing hammers, awls, screw-drivers, can- 
openers that had been thrown about during the previous 
day. For the time being she was absorbed in her work 
and busied herself in it. The amount of her weekly 
wage bothered her. She had been told to go to work 
without any stipulation as to wages. 

“And say, you’d better pull the curtain on that fancy 
wrist-watch. They don’t allow no jewelry here.” 

“Is that the rule?” 

“Yes. They put it through last year. Some of these 
clerks used to come in mornings with more diamonds 
on them than the whole Vanderbilt family. It doesn’t 
look good to have a girl waiting on a customer richer- 
looking than the customer herself. That’s why they 
made us put on these uniforms. It helps the trade.” 

Edith laid her slender hand on her wrist, looking 
down wistfully. Then she started to unclasp the strap 
that held the watch secure. 

“Leave it alone now, cheery, but lose it before you 
come in to-morrow. They are pretty strict here on the 
help. You want to keep busy when ‘Humpy’ comes 
around. You don’t know ‘Humpy’ yet; he’s one of the 
firm. When you see him coming down the line start 
something. Fix the shelves—they always need fixing 
—or arrange the things on the counters. Fie likes to 
see you busy. If he catches you idle he will ask you 
if you have anything to do. They’re always scouting 


356 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

around to cut down expenses somewhere, and usually 
start off by firing fifty or sixty girls.” 

Edith knew no reason why there should be any ap¬ 
peal from these restrictions, except that they interfered 
with one’s personal liberty. To be compelled to make 
so complete a sacrifice of her individuality did not com¬ 
fort her to any extent, but she consoled herself with 
the hope that time would alleviate the discomfort and 
render all things tolerable. How fast she was being 
swallowed up in the life of this great city! First she 
lost her identity when she came here and now she had 
lost her name. To her employer she was not Mrs. 
Colman, but Number IT 142. Her own ideas and 
abilities counted for nothing. It was a gigantic wheel, 
that revolved slowly, in which she was a mere spoke. 
No one considered a spoke until it yielded and was 
sprung; they then pulled it out and replaced it with a 
sound one. Still she w T as obliged to endure this situa¬ 
tion, for want of something more in keeping with her 
worth, and it was necessary for her to succeed in this 
lowly capacity before she could aspire to a greater. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she addressed 
a customer who had approached her counter. 

She was a crotchety old woman with a sour face and 
a piping voice. “Yes, I want some picture wire,” she 
said. 

Picture wire! Edith was sure she had picture wire. 
She had replaced some an hour ago, small, white paper 
boxes with a hole in the center to pull the wire out. 
Picture wire! 

“Haven’t you any?” the woman piped again. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


357 


“Yes, madam,” Edith replied sweetly. “Just a 
minute, please!” 

She found some, after a diligent search, down at the 
farther end of the counter, specimens of the latest 
manufacture in clearly stamped cartons. 

“Down this way, please!” she said, inviting the lady 
to the other end of the department. She showed her 
several samples, much to the customer’s dissatisfaction. 

“I don’t want that kind. Haven’t you got the other 
kind? I want some thin wire, very thin, gold wire.” 

“Gold wire!” 

“No, not gold wire! But of that color. What 
would I be doing with gold wire?” 

Edith did not know what she would be doing with 
gold wire, nor was it her business to inquire, although 
she had half a mind to do so. She would have liked, 
also, to have asked her if she really knew what it was 
she did want. But there was no thin, gold wire on 
the counter, and she politely told her that they were 
all out of it at present. 

“I guess you don’t know much about this place your¬ 
self,” the old lady cast back at her in her shrill voice. 
“There was some here the other day. It’s a wonder 
they wouldn’t put clerks here who knew how to wait 
on people!” 

Presently the floorwalker approached, and inquired 
what it was the customer desired. Edith told him she 
was looking for gold picture wire. 

“Not gold wire. I want that little, thin wire that 
you can’t see. I got some here the other day.” 


358 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“She means that fine, brass wire, back on the shelf. 
You want it for some light pictures, madam,” he said. 

“Yes, that’s it. I knew you had some.” 

Edith filled the order and the customer withdrew. 
No sooner was she by herself than the floorwalker ad¬ 
vanced to the counter, and said in a loud tone: 

“You want to ask about these things before you give 
any decided answer. Look around and see what’s here 
before you make any more sales. You came near losing 
her.” 

Ignominy added to indignity, still she did not mur¬ 
mur. Could not she who had been guilty of a thousand 
offenses bear this with patience and resignation? To 
be esteemed ignorant was no abasement, estranged as 
she was from all who knew her or cared about her. 
She was glad, in a way, to be taught the meaning of 
self-effacement. It was not without effort that she 
schooled herself to accept these humiliations, but they 
made her a prey to the deadlier fangs of remorse for 
the past. She fought for contentment, but it would not 
come. Her hands, soft and tender, drew back in dis¬ 
gust from the rough, heavy articles of her counter. 
Her ears, attuned to the purest of speech and accents, 
shuddered at the careless, coarse talk of her associates. 
Her spirit rebelled from contact with the strangers who 
now peopled her world. She consoled herself with the 
thought that she was marked out from the ordinary 
experience of mankind by the possession of a double 
nature, of a life within a life, and determined to make 
herself better acquainted with the objects and circum- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 359 

stances that surrounded her. This was the only enjoy¬ 
ment possible. 

Twice during the day Mrs. LaField came, and im¬ 
parted a cheerful word of encouragement to stimulate 
her waning enthusiasm. This helped considerably to 
make the time pass, still she thought the hour of six 
would never strike. When she reached home that night 
she was tired and wretched, for it had been a severe 
strain on her pampered body to be obliged to remain 
on her feet all day. If her flesh was weak, however, 
her spirit was indomitable, and she was resolute in her 
determination to conquer this inherent weakness and 
control her will. She bought a combination ticket upon 
the advice of her comrade, for it meant getting things 
a little cheaper at the restaurant where she had decided 
to take her meals. 

She found Mrs. LaField interesting that night, and 
consoling, and she listened to the quiet, unobtrusive 
woman with her fine head of white hair, so maternal- 
looking. From her she tried to learn the lesson of 
heroic achievement, from the sad experiences that 
seemed wrapped up in that wasted life, and draw a 
moral for her future guidance, but the image was in¬ 
definitely vague. Each wanted to preserve the secrets 
of their imprisoned souls, and by no look or sign divulge 
their thoughts. Edith did not want this woman to 
know the terrible tragedy of her life, the tragedy of 
shattered schemes of domestic bliss, willfully brought 
to pass by herself. The despondent note that she struck 
had to do with the present situation; she was not 
aware that her sharp companion had already pene- 


360 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

trated the veil of simulation she tried to wrap about 
her, and surmised a romance of failures and lost ideals. 

“You little expected to find the world so severe a 
task-master,” the mysterious gray angel declared. “It 
is not all romance.” 

“I don’t mind the hardship,” commented Edith, “if 
only I was doing something that I liked.” 

“There is no satisfaction that is constant and dur¬ 
able. There is a true and a false content. Do not 
think that peace and tranquillity consist in doing what 
we like. We are often deceived to our own misery.” 

“I suppose we can adapt ourselves to anything,” 
Edith sighed as she dropped on the bed, and opened 
the newspaper. 

“We cannot all hope to sit on the thrones of kings.” 

She sat, quiet and rather pale, not looking up at 
her gray angel at all, but gazing fixedly at the illustra¬ 
tions in the paper. Another deep sigh escaped her. 

“I wonder if it pays!” she said. 

“What?” questioned the other. The thought sud¬ 
denly forced itself upon her that her young and dainty 
friend was despondent. It was farthest from her mind 
to disclose the secrets that had lain buried there for 
years, but it seemed good to her to share her story with 
this girl who seemed to imagine herself the most aban¬ 
doned person in the world. 

“Trying to do the right thing!” Edith responded. 

“It does in the long run, you may be sure. I once 
thought as you do, but I prayed for perseverance. I 
thank God for it to-day.” 

There was a solemn vibration in her tone, accompa- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 361 

nied by an animated sparkle of the eyes. It made Edith 
long for her to continue, for she felt sure there was 
a mystery concealed in this life, a staunch spirit that 
refused to be crushed. 

“I thought to-day would never end,” Edith confessed 
sadly. “If I could have sat down for a few minutes 
I wouldn’t have minded it so much. Doesn’t it get 
monotonous, this same thing day after day?” 

“Of course it does, but like everything else, you get 
used to it. I told you that you would soon get sucked 
into the current and lose consciousness of the fact that 
you were ever alive.” 

“I don’t think I shall ever get used to it-” 

“That’s because you have had very little to contend 
with. You have had an easy time of it.” 

Edith sighed again and thought to herself, “If she 
only knew I” But she held her peace and pretended to 
be interested in an item in the paper. 

“You don’t suppose I found it easy when I began 
thirty years ago,” her benevolent counselor went on. 

“I suppose not!” 

“I hadn’t a friend in the world I could turn to, ex¬ 
cept my invalid mother whom I had to take care of 
as well as myself. Work wasn’t plentiful in those days 
and you had to earn every dollar you got.” 

“But you were married-” 

“Yes, I was married. That’s the pitiful side of it. 
They say women are the source of all evil, but I have 
my doubts about that. Still, I am not ashamed of 
what I have done and I can truthfully say that I have 




362 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

kept my head above reproach all my life. I have suf¬ 
fered, but never injured anybody.” 

“You know what hardship is, then-” 

“Know? My dear, you may have borne crosses, 
everybody has, but you have not staggered under their 
burden. No one can know what misery is until they 
have drunk the cup to the bitter dregs, themselves, 
meanwhile, innocent and blameless. That’s what makes 
it bitter, the knowledge that it is undeserved. You 
almost wonder why God has abandoned you, were it 
not for the consoling thought that Fie chastises those 
Fie loves.” 

She paused as if expecting an answer, but Edith 
made no sound and she continued with a remark: 

“It was all over my mother. You see I couldn’t 
part with her—there were only the two of us—and it 
was agreed that she should live with us. She was 
opposed to him from the start and knew, as soon as 
we had begun housekeeping, that she was on thin ice 
Besides, she was crippled by a shock which made her 
helpless and matters worse. She was the occasion of 
all my troubles.” 

“Your husband didn’t want her-” 

“Fie despised her, it seemed, before a year had 
passed.” 

“The worst time of married life! The most per¬ 
ilous!” 

“Yes, the most perilous! It takes a year to know 
each other. After that one thing or the other occurs.” 

“But what happened to your mother?” Edith asked, 
interested in the story. 






THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 363 

“She stayed with me until she died.” 

“Then you won him over-” 

Mrs. LaField compressed her lips. 

“Not he! God forgive me for saying it, but he 
was the meanest man ever made. Positively! I actu¬ 
ally think he was out of his head half the time. I 
couldn’t tell you what he was like, but it seemed the 
devil himself obsessed him.” 

She paused for a long, quiet breath, and sat down 
beside Edith on the bed. The sweetness and mildness 
of her face was made pathetic by her downcast eyes. 

“I’ll admit I was crazy about him. There was some¬ 
thing about him that appealed to me, I don’t know 
what it was. Despite my mother’s protest I married 
him, and we were not married quite a year when he 
began to find fault with her. He remonstrated against 
her presence in the house. He didn’t marry me to 
support my whole family, he would say. Finally he 
demanded that she pay her board. Imagine, a poor 
cripple paying her board! We were using some of her 
furniture, but that made no appeal to him. Then he 
started to hold back his money on the claim that he 
was not obliged to pay her bills as well as his own. 
We fought over this. Oh, how we fought! Many a 
night he blackened my two eyes and I could not go 
out to work in the morning. I lost one job over it.” 

“Did you have to work, too?” 

“You bet I did. lie didn’t earn enough. The panic 
came on that year, and work was very slack. We 
were months behind in the rent and threatened with 
^eviction unless we paid something. We had to borrow 



364 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

money on the furniture and, foolishly enough, I put 
my name with his on the back of the note. We never 
overcame that obligation, and it finally led to our 
separation.” 

“How long were you married?” 

“Five years. He left home two or three times, but 
always came back when he got hungry. Finally, the 
break came. What did he do but contract for the sale 
of the furniture. He locked the door and put the keys 
in his pocket, and when I came home from work that 
day I could not get in. I called a policeman. That 
staggered him, but increased his rage. He was a proud 
fellow and liked to present a big front to the people. 
But the people knew him; they heard us fighting. But 
the policeman made him angry and he threatened to 
kill me.” 

“Did you have him arrested?” 

“No! What good would it do? All I wanted was 
to get into my house. We had to break open the door. 
That night he brought the men for the furniture, my 
mother’s furniture, everything-” 

“What made you part with it-?” 

“I had to. The note was due, and the furniture 
had been put up for security. We paid the bills and 
divided what was left. I remember getting thirty dol¬ 
lars. We parted then-” 

“And you have not seen him since?” 

“Once! At his mother’s, where I had gone to find 
out what he intended doing. He came in while I was 
there, and ran after me and hit me.” 

“Hit you?” 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 365 

‘Til never forget it. Two of my teeth were loosened 
in front. See, where the pivots are! After that I 
found it difficult to be generous. The tie between us 
was broken. I don’t know that it was ever very close. 
It was an external thing. For a time I didn’t care 
what happened to me, but I had my mother and couldn’t 
abandon her. I got a nice room for the two of us 
and managed to earn enough to keep us alive. Poor 
thing! She hadn’t much comfort in her old age and 
God was merciful when He took her.” 

“And you never married again?” 

“Ha! Never again!” 

Her eyes were fastened on Edith without any ex¬ 
pression but that of mysterious immobility. Her face, 
however, appeared more sad and thoughtful than ever. 

“But for all that,” she continued, “I have never felt 
guilty. It is the only consolation I have. I have re¬ 
spected lawful conventions, and nobody can say that 
I have ever done him an injury. I have worked hard, 
and my conscience is clear. And I have enough faith 
in the hereafter, to know that I can face my Judge with 
perfect equanimity. There must be justice somewhere.” 

“Life seems to be a series of betrayals,” Edith said 
wearily, as she had said once before. “There are so 
many kinds of them.” 

“I have learned that, but at my own expense. There 
is nothing like having a clean soul. I never knew myself 
until I had this chance to test my worthiness. I have 
known caprice, and it left me unharmed because I was 
steadfast enough not to be captured by it. I have 
known affliction, but it failed to crush me. There was 


366 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

something in me that would not be worsted. I think 
I found it by finding myself.'’ 

That hour with Mrs. LaField altered Edith’s whole 
perspective. A while ago her wrath and despair had 
been so fierce and overwhelming that she almost desired 
death to put an end to her misery. With the unfolding 
of that tale, however, there came influences too real to 
be lightly shaken off. How patiently this woman bore 
her burden! What religious calm pervaded that life 
and made her conform to the Will of God! How 
conscious she was of her innocence! Edith perceived 
a gulf yawning between them, which absolutely pre¬ 
cluded her from even approaching within admiring 
distance of her. This woman was a veritable martyr; 
she a miserable coward. 

As she reviewed her past she recognized with a guilty 
feeling the self-deception which had characterized it. 
She was pleased to term it unconscious, because it ex¬ 
onerated her from culpability. Before this penetrating 
light of introspection everything turned to dust. There 
was the tyrannizing influence her stubborn spirit had 
acquired over her. Unlike this woman of sorrow, 
whose soul had long been captive to anguish, her own 
life had never a purpose or an ambition outside of the 
gratification of its own personal desires. It was her 
arrogant opinions that had destroyed her home and 
shattered her hopes of domestic bliss. It was her re¬ 
fusal to honor the divisions between right and wrong, 
the honorable and the dishonorable, convention and 
license, that led to her ultimate undoing and complete 
disaster. 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 367 

Now all was changed. If her life had heretofore 
been a ridiculous failure there was still time for repa¬ 
ration. She began to feel calm and comforted. Her 
bent form grew erect with conscious power. New 
standards were set up, which honesty to herself and 
loyalty to her convictions encouraged her to abide by. 
The hours would not be so long to-morrow nor the 
place behind the counter so undignified. That night 
she prayed. When she arose she felt as if she had 
drawn a magic circle around herself through which no 
indecision, impotence, or irresolution could possibly 
intrude. 


XXVII 


M ORE than three months did Edith devote to 
the strict performance of duty, and they aged 
her considerably. Not that her actual distress 
up to the present time was afflictive, or even oppressive, 
but grief lay heavy within her and would not be as* 
suaged. There was an immense gulf between Edith, 
the victim of poverty and straitened circumstances, and 
Edith, the cultured girl and pampered wife, sighing 
intently for them. It was no easy task to discipline a 
spoiled body to the rigorous requirements of a resolute 
will, and her petulant spirit naturally chafed under the 
compulsory restraint imposed upon it. But she never 
capitulated. Her weekly wage was no more than a 
mere pittance; she adapted herself to the limitation of 
pleasures and privileges which her voluntary servitude 
enjoined; she grew disgusted with the unpalatable fare 
which the restaurant offered, and the perfunctory per¬ 
formance of ordering the same menu week after week; 
nevertheless she bore herself wonderfully well and 
manifested no palpable signs of displeasure or irri¬ 
tation. 

For she had made the sacrifice cheerfully; it was 
the greater and the more tolerable because no one knew 
the extent of it but herself. The precise details of 
her doleful tragedy she never divulged, not even in 

368 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 369 

exchange for that soulful confession of her sympathetic 
comrade. Necessity required her to give some reason¬ 
able pretext for being alone in a strange city, and she 
related the story of the Colman catastrophe, her mar¬ 
riage to Bert, the birth of their child, his manifest 
indifference to them because of his too sordid absorp¬ 
tion in politics and the affairs of business, their per¬ 
sistent quarreling and subsequent divorce. The har¬ 
rowing details of the Wheaton episode she kept to 
herself. She was ashamed of it, and wanted no one 
to know about it except herself and God. 

She steadily refused one recreation after the other; 
the fervor of her self-denial was admirable. But the 
worst side of doing one’s duty heroically and exclusively 
was that it unfitted one quite for doing anything else. 
Edith spent the hours evenly between her room and 
the store and seldom wandered far from the beaten 
path which joined these two abodes. Any other phase 
of life no longer attracted her. She avoided the 
theater, the fashionable dining-halls, the cabarets and 
even the society of her associates. She walked to work 
with Mrs. LaField in the morning and returned with 
her at night. She was content to live simply and in 
solitude. Her dress was strikingly plain and without 
elegance. It was remarkable the complete isolation 
that had gripped her and made her, in a few months, 
a mere monotonous atom in a great city teeming with 
millions of human beings. 

If the mention of the Wheaton tragedy was disagree¬ 
able to her soul the very contemplation of it was ab¬ 
horrent. Westlawn meant no more to her now than 


370 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


a gloomy and chilly catacomb. She hated him, whom 
she held equally to blame with her for the heinousness 
of her sin, and deprecated with all her heart and tears 
the iniquitous career into which she had allowed herself 
to be led. He was the traitor who had stolen into 
her home and destroyed it. What fantastic pictures 
of connubial bliss she had permitted her imagination 
to conjure with this man seated by her side, smiling 
and sneering at her folly and simplicity! She thanked 
God devoutly for the revelation that had brought her 
to a sense of duty. Many a lonely day and wakeful 
night she spent in a kind of powerless despair and rage 
against her iniquitous indulgence. It was the conscious¬ 
ness of the heinous sin she had committed, more than 
the consideration of her crime and cruelty that made 
her present misery the more bitter and intensified the 
pains of ruthless remorse a thousand fold. 

A hundred soft recollections of love and confidence, 
in contrast, flooded her soul from day to day as she 
revisited the haunts of longing, and looked back over 
the great gulf of days that had elapsed since then. In 
terms the most affectionate she praised the noble man 
who had thought her worthy to share his honored life 
with him, and she forgave and blessed the honest hand 
that would have wounded her to bring her to a reali¬ 
zation of her imperfections. There w T as her cozy little 
home, comfortable and happy, with everything of her 
own selection and precious because of its hard-earned 
acquisition. She lived over and over again those 
anxious hours while she waited for her baby to come. 
She fondled it anew to her bosom, saw its first smile 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 371 

of recognition, measured it day by day as she watched 
it grow. Its little life was hers, its blood, its tiny 
heart, its pink skin, its liquid eyes. Half frantic with 
grief at the rank injustice she had done Bab, and think¬ 
ing of her deliberate abandonment, her coldness and 
indifference, when she should have been the happiest 
mother in the wide, wide world, she suffered tortures 
of anguish and self-reproach, alone, because she could 
take no comrade into her confidence. She would as 
lief have pleaded guilty to Bab’s murder and have suf¬ 
fered for it as to endure the agony of soul to which 
she was subjected. 

“You ought to get out more,” her monitor advised 
her when both of them had come in one evening with¬ 
out much show of affability. “I can understand how 
you feel, but you must learn to make the best of things. 
Your conflict now is with your own self, and you must 
not yield.” 

“It is not myself—so much-” 

“Yes, it is. You fret a good deal. Can’t you bring 
yourself to like it here?” 

“I am beginning to like it better each day. It was 
no easy task for me to get accustomed to this kind of 
life.” 

“I suppose not. But everything that is valuable is 
difficult to procure. You make it still harder, however, 
by continually longing for something different. Even 
the beggar is happy when his lot contents him. And 
there is a vast difference between him who performs 
his work cheerfully and another who performs it from 
habit and with regret.” 



372 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“Have I ever murmured-?” 

“No, I have not heard you utter a word of com¬ 
plaint these three months. But you have nursed your 
griefs terribly both night and day. You take no pleas¬ 
ure in anything. You avoid all company. That shows 
that whereas you have restrained the freedom of your 
senses, yet you have not mortified your passions. 
Everywhere you go you bear with you the burden of 
your bereavement.” 

This admonition, while it proceeded from the kind¬ 
liest of hearts, did not please Edith. However repre¬ 
hensible her sin was, and she did not deny that she 
was wholly deserving of the severest castigations for 
her culpable delinquency, nevertheless her moods and 
her silences were her own purely personal affairs, and 
subject to no exterior criticism or censure. They were 
the inevitable effects of her heroic discipline, for she 
was well aware that she could not remain her former 
irresponsible self and triumph over her passions and 
desires. To abandon herself to gayety and wanton 
indulgence, would be a most effective means of dis¬ 
pelling this melancholic demeanor, but this in turn 
would only make for dissatisfaction with her humble 
position and tempt her to find means of escaping from 
it. It was her dangerously capricious spirit she wanted 
to keep under restraint, for which reason she regarded 
not so much the consequences of this self-repression as 
the security she seemed to derive from it. 

“Come with me to the theater this evening,” Mrs. 
LaField urged her. “It will distract you for a while.” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 373 

“No, I guess I will stay at home,” Edith replied, 
“unless you particularly want to go.” 

“I don’t mind. I was thinking of you-” 

“You have been very kind to me. I never can ex¬ 
press how much I appreciate what you have done.” 

“Gracious! Don’t think of thanking me. I only 
asked you to go out because I thought you looked quite 
pale.” 

“Yes, I have a headache. I am tired, I suppose.” 

It was a cold, bitter night, and both were content 
to remain within doors. Frigid blasts had swept 
through the avenues all day long, making everybody 
shiver with the intense cold. Dark night descended 
over the city and brought with it snow and solitude 
and desolation. Everywhere was the invariable me¬ 
morial of death and decay. 

Edith was really ill that night and took to her bed 
earlier than usual. It appeared to be no more than 
a severe cold at first, and she coughed persistently, but 
the infection spread rapidly to the bronchial tubes. 
There was a sharp rise in her temperature and she 
slept but little. In the morning a physician was sum¬ 
moned and pleurisy was diagnosed. She was ordered 
to keep to her bed and remain absolutely quiet. 

Never had she been so near death before, but being 
so near it began to wish less ardently for it. At times 
she would have been glad to die were she certain that 
death would have proved her fidelity. Injuries would 
then be forgiven. But she feared this now. She was 
not quite prepared to meet her Eternal judge w T ith so 
many accounts unatoned for. Better to live and make 



374 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


reparation for her iniquities than to escape the pen¬ 
alties of this life and take chances with that to come. 
Besides, the concept of dying in obscurity, homeless 
and friendless, was abhorrent, and sent a cold shudder 
through her fever-tortured frame. 

The days passed in loneliness, interminable, with 
never a sound to rend the ghastly silence save the 
mocking melody of the clock on the mantel shelf. Pur¬ 
sued with horrible misgivings of a dismal future, her 
mind distracted with a febrile delirium which caused 
her to feel the presence of illusory and errant faces 
that leered at her from the walls and ceiling, but did 
not speak, she languished on her bed of pain in dread¬ 
ful fear and unavailing expectancy. Exhaustion sat on 
her drawn features. From her languid eyes despairing 
glances traveled through the dimness of the destitute 
chamber, and grimly reminded her that she had nothing 
to live for. Even the frosted windows chilled what¬ 
ever ardor she had into dreary indifference. Somehow 
or other the time wore away, as she lay there miserable 
and distressed, waiting for some kind hand to raise a 
glass of refreshing water to her parched lips, waiting 
for the return of her gracious patron to console her in 
her affliction. 

“Where is my poor child?” she moaned. “Dear 
God, give me back my baby! Oh, why did I ever 
forsake her! Why did I break up my happy home 
and run off with that wicked man? I wanted riches, 
prominence, luxuries—for which I brought misery into 
other lives and disgrace to my own house. I defied 
God, society, conventions. My sin is always before 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


375 


me. Must I die in this wretched place, homeless and 
friendless, in punishment for my misdeeds, outcast, and 
disgraced, and hurried away to a potter’s field as a 
derelict of humanity? God have mercy on me!” 

These words, uttered in the wildness of her delirium, 
sounded on Mrs. LaField’s ears as she entered the 
darksome room that night after work. Gently she 
soothed the throbbing brow, and cooled the parching 
throat with a glass of water. Lighting the little stove 
she started to prepare some tea and toast but Edith 
restrained her. Her appetite had failed her, and she. 
had taken no nourishment for days. It appeared as 
if her strength were rapidly failing, and her lungs filling 
up, but there was never a word of complaint or appeal. 
Through the night the sympathetic matron sat beside 
the bed and watched, as it were, this life slowly ebbing 
away, stricken with sorrow at her own inability to 
alleviate the discomfort of the sufferer, and thinking 
of the shadows of despair which seemed to torture her 
mind. 

“Won’t you let me send for Mr. Colman?” she 
whispered. “I am sure he will be a comfort to you.” 

“No, no, no!” Edith moaned. 

“But listen, my dear, this is not asking too much. 
Whatever differences you might have had, he is still 
your husband and nearer to you than any person in the 
world. He might even be glad to avail himself of this 
opportunity to show his continued love for you. This 

illness may prove to be a blessing from heaven in dis- 

* >> 
guise. 


■j 


376 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“I have done him too great an injustice. I don’t 
want to live-” 

“Of course you want to live. Don’t lose heart now. 
There are those alive to whom, in return for their love 
for me, I would fondly have given my life. But I 
have made them better and happier by living. I have 
no regrets for what I did. I have purged my soul by 
mortification and am better prepared to die now than 
ever before.” 

“That is consoling,” Edith replied, “but I can hope 
for no such satisfaction-” 

“My dear, you have lived admirably. Not once in 
all the weeks we have been together have I heard you 
utter one word of complaint. I perceived the hardship 
you were suffering, and I w T as well aware how unac¬ 
customed you were to this kind of life. Don’t lose 
courage now. If you want to die to escape the miseries 
of this mortal life, or to sin no more, or to be united 
with God, it is a pious wish. But to escape merely the 
responsibilities of life, the heartaches, the ills that flesh 
is heir to, and the means of expiating your sins—then 
it is a cowardly thought. Make up your mind you 
want to get better.” 

These words, the grief and despair which they caused, 
must have brought on a coma, for Edith had scarce 
any recollection of what followed save that of her little 
girl standing beside her with her arms outstretched 
imploringly. She tried to talk with her and put out 
her own arms to bring her within reach, but there was 
no sign of recognition or motion. When she awoke, 
the dull light of early morning was diffused throughout 




THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 377 

the room and she knew she felt better, brighter for the 
first time in days. Later the doctor came and found 
her much improved. The crisis had passed and all 
she needed now was good food and care. A secret 
pleasure greeted this announcement as she thought how 
much better it was not to have to die now with no one 
in the wide world to grieve for her. 

The Christmas holidays came and found her still 
recuperating from her long confinement. But what a 
Christmas! She was thoroughly miserable, for loneli¬ 
ness and ennui for want of something to do. Not 
having the energy to struggle against the heavy de¬ 
spondency to which her temperament was subject she 
spent the day in quietude and recollection, the theater of 
her brain busy with innumerable scenes, some of them 
vivid and pleasant, others dull and sad. From its very 
association the day is suggestive of joy and gladness 
but to Edith, dissatisfied with her adventures, it meant 
desolation. She saw the empty chairs of that former 
comfortable home now tenanted by strangers, smiling, 
laughing, bantering about a table laden with tempting 
viands. She saw her precious Babs as she was wont 
to creep down the stairs on this happy morning in glee¬ 
ful expectancy. She crept to the edge of the balustrade 
and peered down to behold her clapping her hands in 
admiration of the gayly-tinseled tree and the host of 
pretty things surrounding it, dolls, carriages, beds, toys, 
horns generously left by good St. Nicholas the night 
before. But there were no stairs for her to run down 
this morning in her muslin bathrobe. She wondered 
if she would derive any pleasure from the big, walking 


378 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

doll she had sent her—or spurn it with bitterness be¬ 
cause of the signature it bore! The gloom of these fan¬ 
cied occurrences clouded the day and left a great blot on 
her memory. When evening came and she had shaken 
off to some extent the fatal shadow, it was time to lie 
down and renew them. 

One day, at the close of the holiday season, Mrs. 
LaField returned with the announcement that Edith 
had lost her place at the store. It was customary, she 
explained, to trim the expense account at the beginning 
of the new year when business was usually dull, by dis¬ 
charging some of the employees. Edith took the news 
equably, thinking of the hardships she had endured. 
Virtue, evidently, was not its own recompense, and she 
thought it unjust that 'this burden should be imposed 
upon her shoulders, now so physically frail and impo¬ 
tent. 

“What shall I do now?” she said aloud. 

“Do!” her comforter echoed. “Why, you will put 
yourself entirely in the divine hands and do as He wants 
you to do.” 

“Yes,” came the response, “I suppose I shall.” 

“It may be God’s will that you lose that place. You 
had determined, you know, to hold it as a temporary 
makeshift, but you have made no apparent effort to 
better yourself since obtaining it. That is not your 
life-work, evidently.” 

“How shall I find it-?” 

“All my life I have prayed that God’s will be done 
through me. I have never sought anything of myself 
but have been content with whatever He has been 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 379 

pleased to grant me. I have found happiness, for I 
accepted good fortune and misfortune alike with per¬ 
fect equanimity.” 

“That is the more perfect way, of course—but who 
can find it?” 

“Have you tried? Rather, have you not followed 
your own will in the performance of everything? You 
always thought that love could work wonders. Love 
of what?” 

“Perhaps I thought that everything was preordained, 
like the order and procession of players on a stage. 
You must be fitted by nature for your part.” 

“True enough, but one may still interfere with the 
economy of things while playing his role. What you 
suppose concerning Fortune is unreasonable. Fortune 
is nothing. It is not she who bestows those goods on 
us which are commonly called the goods of fortune. 
Nothing happens by chance. God alone has regulated 
all things and appointed everything from all eternity.” 

It was impressive how much the simple piety of this 
modest woman intensified her simole address. So vivid 
was her profound sincerity that she impressed Edith 
with an acute perception of her own unworthiness. Her 
face indicated a peculiar sort of sweetness and sub¬ 
limity, a quality which Edith felt was descriptive of 
her whole personality. She admired her, admired 
the perfect grace, the amazing poise of that venerable 
head, the assured and even flow of her voice. Hope 
and despair kept up continual warfare in her heart as 
she considered what the message meant which this 
woman was attempting to impart. Out of the con- 


3 8o THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


fusion of shapeless images that were crowding her 
brain the thought surged uppermost that her path of 
duty lay straight to Bab’s door. Bab needed her. 
That was what she seemed to say. 

“I was thinking,” she said meditatively, drawing a 
deep breath, “perhaps I ought to go home to see my 
little girl.” 

“To stay?” came the inquiry. 

“Oh, no ! That is impossible.” 

“She was in the hospital when you last saw her?” 

“Yes, but was expected to leave shortly.” 

“Will you see—him?” 

“No! I would rather not—just now.” 

“You want to see him, don’t you? There! There! 
I did not mean to make you feel bad. It is a struggle, 
isn’t it! To know what you want to do, but cannot. 
It is pride that holds you back, isn’t it? False pride!” 

Edith shook her head. No, it was not pride, for 
she had overcome that long ago. It was something 
else. She could not talk about it now. 

“I shall see her. She must be at the Academy. But 
I shall be back. Yes, I shall come back.” 

It was dark when Edith arrived in Shefford, though 
not late, and she went straight to a hotel and passed 
unobserved into the lobby and mingled with the guests 
at the desk. A severe snow-storm had set in, covering 
everything with a heavy blanket, piling up angular 
drifts around the corners and against the houses and 
scaring people off the streets into havens of shelter. 
Edith decided to go out for a walk under cover of 
the storm, for she was fearful of being discovered in 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 381 


the city. Up the avenue she stepped in the direction 
of her former home. How strangely familiar every¬ 
thing seemed! The old school was still there, its 
towers and gables dimly visible through the blinding 
snow. Centre Street was the same, down which 
shambled the invariable safety trolley-car which stopped 
directly in front of her. It was intensely real. Every 
home wore a haunting presence. The trees, thickets 
and shrubs, now covered with woolen foliage and 
flowers, occupied their wonted places. Across the 
street a new gasoline filling station appeared like an 
interloper into the sacred scene. But it truly afforded 
a metropolitan touch to the old-fashioned neighborhood 
with its colorful fagade and brilliantly illuminated en¬ 
vironment. 

At last the big apartment blocks and attached houses 
began to show on her right, and she knew well where 
she was. Out of the opaque whiteness came the per¬ 
vading illumination of a set of windows which brought 
back the golden light of her life. It was Dr. Dahill’s 
house and she knew that her husband was there, living 
with him, sharing his hours between here and Wash¬ 
ington. Next door, in the three-story attached house 
with the sandstone steps and brass railings, was where 
she had lived. There was her front room, now dark 
and forbidding, where she had had her array of parch¬ 
ment lamps and commodious chairs. She wondered 
how the new family had arranged it! And was there 
another Babs to enliven the subdued silence with her 
merry laughter? Beautiful pictures passed in painful 
review across her mind until she began to experience 


382 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

a sort of pleasure in the reflection; the love of a wife 
and mother animated her wounded heart. 

The wind shook the trees over her head and made 
the branches toss shiveringly in the driving snow. Her 
pulse beat fast, with agreeable excitement; her mind 
reveled in the ecstatic scenes of other years. More 
than once she pictured Bert crossing the doctor’s room 
with a quick, assured step, and falling into an easy 
chair with his customary cigar. Everything passed in 
perfect panorama before her and gripped her intently. 
There were persons in the room whose shadows moved 
at intervals across the lighted space, but none of them 
approached close enough to be distinctly visible. For 
a long time she stood there in the blinding snow with 
her eyes glued to the window. At length some one 
approached and pulled down the shade, clothing the 
whole house in darkness. She turned away with a 
heavy heart. Chill flakes of snow drove against her 
face and there were tears on her cheeks. 

A pedestrian crossed directly in front of her. By 
his gait she knew him and drew back to avoid him as 
he passed. It was Dr. Dahill. 

“Mrs. Wheaton!” he exclaimed, like one surprised. 
“As I live-!” 

“Yes, doctor—” she stammered. 

“What in the world are you doing here—of all 
places? Where have you been?” 

“I just got in. I am going to see Babs.” 

“Not to-night surely-” 

“Oh, no, to-morrow.” 

“Come with me-” 





THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 383 

“No, thank you. I would rather not.” 

“Come upstairs with me. We are alone, mother and 
I. Bert is out of town. Come along.” 

Reluctantly she obeyed him, leaden-footed, with a 
sinking heart and excited brain, hot and trembling. He 
did not call his mother, for which she was glad. The 
interview was to be held in his private office. 


XXVIII 


( TI TELL,” said the doctor, excitedly and rushing 
about the room, first to close the door and 
then to remove her cloak, “this is indeed a 
surprise. Whatever in the world were you doing out 
in a night like this? No one would venture into this 
storm unless he had to. You hadn’t expected to en¬ 
counter me!” 

She acknowledged confusedly that she had not, and 
looked about the room to make sure that they would 
not be overheard. It was a small room, partitioned 
off from the living apartment and fitted up as an office. 
Here the doctor saw those few emergency patients who 
found it impossible to visit him down town. 

“Imagine finding you outside my window—when I 
would have given anything to know where you were 
during the last three months. Do you know you dis¬ 
appeared very mysteriously and left no trace behind 
you?” 

“That was the idea,” she said softly. “I might 
have been unsuccessful had I made my destination 
known.” 

“And you ran away! There’s nothing more miser¬ 
able than discontent, is there? Trying to cut one’s self 
off from the remembrance of man is only a new way 

384 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 385 

to beget more sorrows. Your face tells me you have 
not been happy.” 

“I am better off than I hoped to be, but I am far 
from happiness. You know my life as well as anybody 
could ever know it, so it is all right to tell you this 
much.” 

ITe brought a chair opposite her and sat down. 

“If ever you are in need of help I want to assure 
you that no one holds your interests closer to his heart 
than I. Am I not as fully allied to you by the bonds 
of friendship as anybody can hope to be? You may 
say what you choose. I am still wondering how I 
chanced to find you out in the street at this hour of 
night and alone.” 

“I have only arrived in town, and I walked out here 
from the hotel.” 

“You are stopping at a hotel?” 

“Yes. It was better, wasn’t it, to keep my visit 
secret?” 

“Then no one knows you are here!” 

“No one but you.” 

“You are not going back-” 

“Where?” 

“To them?” 

“The Wheatons? Never! I left them for good. 
You would not expect me to play the part of a prodigal, 
and beg for readmission?” 

The stoicism of her manner, the pathetic flavor of 
her words, would have convinced the dullest mind. Fie 
looked at her in silence for a moment, and then ex¬ 
claimed : 



386 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“You haven’t lost any of your indomitable will.” 

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “It is not the same. 
I have learned much during the past three months.” 

“In what way? What have you been doing with 
yourself?” 

“Working!” 

“Indeed! May I ask where?” 

“Certainly. I am not ashamed of it. In a store! 
I got a job at the hardware counter as a saleslady.” 

“I cannot fancy you standing behind a counter dis¬ 
posing of wares-” 

“You can do anything when you are put to it. Of 
course, I didn't like it, but I soon grew used to it. I 
rather enjoyed meeting so many people, but it was tir¬ 
ing. I could not get accustomed to standing all day.” 

“It made you sick. Your face tells me that you are 
not well.” 

“I am better now, but I nearly died. Pneumonia! 
Do you know I really wanted to die, and yet when the 
time came I fought against it. That’s natural, isn’t it?” 

There was something uneasy in the quick beating of 
her eyelids and in the subtle quivering of her lips. A 
while ago she had been defiant—now she was plainly 
nervous. The doctor felt conscious of a curious inter¬ 
est in her. It was a different woman who confronted 
him, not the whimsical, negligent, heedless girl he used 
to know, but a subdued and worried mother. She was 
here to inquire about her child. That was certain. But 
did she mean to see her husband? 

“Nothing else happened?” he said. 

“What do you mean?” 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 387 

“Well, for instance, did the Wheatons locate you? 
Or the Liggetts? They are friendly, I believe. And 
it is very easy to encounter people in a big store.” 

“No, I have not seen anybody since I went away.” 

“But you are not yet freed from him!” 

She dropped her dark eyelids over those eyes that 
ought to have been lustrous but were not, and mur¬ 
mured: 

“No!” 

“Do you think he will let you go? You can’t very 
well do anything until you are divorced from him.” 

“Do? What is there for me to do? I am nothing. 
I only want my child. Do you think I could have her?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He didn’t stir hand or foot, and not even the modu¬ 
lation of his voice denoted that he was taken by surprise. 

“Is she well?” she pressed him. 

“I believe so! Have you heard otherwise?” 

“No. When I last saw her in the hospital she was 
ready to be discharged. And so I presumed that every¬ 
thing went well, and that she is now back at school.” 

“You didn’t know of the complication, then-” 

“No. What was it?” 

“Cerebro spinal-meningitis set in shortly after you 
were there.” 

She waited for him to go on. 

“She recovered from that, but her mind was im¬ 
paired-” 

“Merciful heavens!” 

“She had to be taken away, of course, and is now 




388 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

doing fairly well. It often happens that way with 
children. They usually grow out of it.” 

“Where is she now?” 

“At Riverton.” 

“The insane asylum!” 

“There was no other place. The hospital could not 
accommodate a case like that, and it was deemed ad¬ 
visable to place her with those who were skilled in the 
treatment of such diseases. If she will improve at all 
it will be under their immediate supervision.” 

For a long time Edith preserved a silence which the 
doctor thought best not to interrupt. Babs an imbe¬ 
cile ! Her face lost its mask-like stillness, and assumed 
a mournful expression. She lost her self-control, and, 
leaning her head on the desk, began to sob bitterly. 
Slight, convulsive movements shook her frail body, and 
the surgeon was moved to pity. Going to her side 
he laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder and com¬ 
forted her. 

“Now, now, my good girl, you must not take it so 
hard. Just brace up and look at it sensibly. It is what 
might happen to anybody. And she is getting well. I 
saw her last week and have noticed a change already. 
Meningitis is always dangerous. She got an infection, 
that was all, and it ran through her system. It so hap¬ 
pened with her that the cerebrum was the most affected 
portion. There! There! Don’t let your feelings 
overcome you.” 

“If she only—had a home—this—would never— 
have happened-” she sobbed. 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 389 

“Now, don’t be foolish! That could happen 
whether she had a home or not.” 

“But she would not have to be put away in an 
asylum.” 

“Even then I would advise it. It is the best place. 
She has the services of the best psychiatrists in the 
State. If she can be cured it will be under their care.” 

She made no reply to this, but kept her head buried 
in the crook of her elbow and continued to give way 
to her tears. 

“The brain is a strange thing,” he went on. “It has 
its disorders and ailments, but we cannot penetrate into 
its territory. It has its sentinels that go off duty and 
leave it exposed to sudden attacks and we cannot guard 
against them. It is God’s domain, where the mirror 
of the soul is held up to catch the illuminations of the 
Divine Mind and it admits of no mortal interference. 
In her particular case everything was done that human 
skill was capable of doing.” 

“It is all my fault-” 

“Don’t be foolish. What makes you talk like that? 
You had no more control over it than I had. You have 
known what it is to be sick, to be tormented with a 
fever, but did it make you any more comfortable to 
reproach yourself that you were laid low through your 
own negligence? No one of us courts disease. It 
comes whether we will or no. Babs fell sick with 
typhoid, that was all. And the complication was an 
unfortunate consequence.” 

She had thrown her head back a little. But her eyes 
were swollen and moist. 



390 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Oh, why was I not here!” she sighed. 

“We made every attempt to locate you without suc¬ 
cess. No one knew whither you had gone.” 

“I knew it—I felt it! Something in here kept telling 
me all the time that all was not well. I could see her 
appealing to me. God! When I think of it! Did 
she ask for me?” 

“Yes, she did! But to tell the truth she didn’t seem 
much interested in anything. They generally don’t, 
cases of that kind.” 

“Did she suffer much? I’m not fit to go near her 
again. She no longer cares for me, I know. She hates 
me! She must! I would have had her all to myself 
if I had only known. Poor dear! And I could not 
even be found.” 

The implication of guilt in her tranquil manner was 
pathetic. It seemed to override every other emotion, 
grief, distress and despair, the overwhelming sensation 
that everything was over, that a part of herself was 
lost beyond recall, taking with it the savor of life. It 
did not appear as if she could be consoled, so bitter was 
her contemptuous disdain, and she was ready to aban¬ 
don herself to any penalty in payment of her immense 
mistake. She pulled at the hem of her handkerchief 
and a tear struck the back of her hand, big and heavy as 
if it had fallen from a great height. 

“You didn’t tell even Miss Wheaton where you 
might be found,” he reminded her. 

“No. I thought it better to keep them ignorant of 
my whereabouts, fearing lest they might interfere with 
me. He would not let me go, you know.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 391 

“Did he attempt to hinder you?” 

“Yes! I had to steal away from him. He doesn’t 
care a snap of his finger for me, I know, but he imag¬ 
ined that I wanted to go back to the old life. So he 
swore he would never permit it. He will never give 
me my freedom.” 

“Did you ask for it?” 

“No. I wanted to go away, off by myself where I 
would never see him again. He can’t make me go 
back, can he? I don’t want to. I hate him. He was 
the cause of all my trouble.” 

“Was he?” 

The peculiar flavor of the question struck her as if 
some one had poured a bucket of cold water over her 
head. She compressed her lips with an angry glance— 
then her mind dwelt on that significant retort. Was it 
true that she was the culprit in this man’s estimation? 
If it were, then she had been deluding herself all the 
time that she was an innocent victim and had taken 
consolation from a fabrication that was entirely ficti¬ 
tious. Was it Kelso Wheaton who had victimized her 
or was it she, the exquisite woman she thought she was, 
who had deliberately sacrificed her honor and her place 
for a luxurious existence? The doctor was adroit 
enough to penetrate beneath the veneer w T hich she had 
employed to conceal her true self, and she looked up at 
him guiltily, wistfully, like an accused malefactor hop¬ 
ing for pity from his accusers. 

“Yes,” she acknowledged at last, with a surrender 
of self-respect, “I was the one who did wrong, but I 
have been to confession since I saw you, and am making 


392 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

reparation for my fault. It is hardly worth mention¬ 
ing, still I believe I did what was expected of me. For 
that reason I can never hope to go back to him again, 
not even if I wanted to.” 

“They want you to return. Miss Wheaton seems 
to miss you very much.” 

“Poor Evelyn! She was very human. I feared her 
at first, not knowing how she would receive me into her 
home, but she proved to be a true friend notwithstand¬ 
ing her opposition to my proposal to bring my child 
there. You see I have been longing for her from the 
start. When I told Evelyn of my desires she frowned 
upon them. I suppose she is not really to blame. She 
is a Wheaton through and through, and would sacrifice 
anything for the glory of their name. That was one 
characteristic I observed with them—they simply wor¬ 
ship their family name. Whatever else they do they 
will not tarnish their pedigree.” 

“Yes,” he said, “she told me that, but she regrets 
her action and feels now that if you had been permitted 
to take the child everything would have turned out bet¬ 
ter. They did not want to lose you, that is to say in the 
way in which they did, for which reason I suspect you 
would be welcomed back with open arms. You know 
Henry Liggett died-” 

“Mr. Liggett dead!” she exclaimed. 

“Oh, yes! These two months!” 

She said nothing. 

“He never recovered from his shock, I was told. 
His wife has disposed of the New York home, and 
has taken up her residence in a suburban district, Pel- 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 393 

ham or Larchmont—somewhere around there. She 
came in for the entire estate, and is living by herself.” 

Edith smiled cynically. “Do you suppose that will 
be for long?” she asked. 

“How can I tell?” he replied. “You see, I don’t 
even know the woman.” 

“I was jealous of her once upon a time, but I almost 
wish her well now. To be perfectly honest with you 
I think I owe her a debt of gratitude.” 

“Gratitude!” 

“Yes, for making me realize what I never knew be¬ 
fore. Through her I found myself.” 

“By dint of association, you mean!” 

“Yes, and pointing out to me the inconsistency of the 
whole performance. I learned to know him better 
through her. It was like taking the lid off a box and 
seeing an ugly toad staring at you. I suppose I 
shouldn’t have said that, for he was never ugly. But 
he grew repulsive! I perceived for the first time the 
senseless vanity that regulated his whole life. He 
thrived on adulation. It nourished him. He made 
much of those who came to him with extravagant com¬ 
pliments and rewarded the one that groveled before 
him. Never could he play a mean part. Never could 
he occupy a second place.” 

“For that reason you left-” 

“No—but that had much to do with it. When I 
started to compare situations, the old life seemed won¬ 
derfully perfect.” 

“And you regretted having made the exchange-” 

“Yes, I suppose I did.” 




394 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“And you decided to act according to your convic¬ 
tions.” 

“I began to realize the purchase price of illegitimate 
pleasure. To have your aspirations appeased is not 
contentment.” 

“But it is something to say that you have climbed 
to the pinnacle of ambition.” 

“It is nothing. It is misery when you weigh the cost. 
We never miss the sunshine until the day is through. 
They are not the happiest whose head is crowned with 
gold. Poor Evelyn! I believe she really pitied me 
towards the end. She seemed to understand. I won¬ 
der if she’ll ever marry!” 

“The other girl will.” 

“Doris?” 

“Is that her name? I saw an item about her in the 
paper the other night.” 

“I never could learn much from her. She was very 
reserved. We got along admirably because we had so 
little to do with each other. I do hope she will be 
happy!” 

She uttered these last w r ords as if she meant them 
from the bottom of her heart. He could not help 
thinking how lonely she looked, her face pale, lips a 
little parted and her glance darkened by fatigue. Pres¬ 
ently he said: 

“This makes you melancholy—thinking of the hap¬ 
piness of others.” 

“No,” she replied. “I am not envious, if that is 
what you mean. Until they were brought into the con¬ 
versation I hardly ever thought of them. I fancy now 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 395 


that I could tell beforehand what each of them is going 
to say. They never get serious, even about serious 
things.” 

“Would you return to him?” 

The question was direct, and he observed her in¬ 
tently to discover what was in her mind. But she did 
not falter. 

“To whom?” she said, dispassionately. 

“Bert.” 

“Impossible! Besides he would have something to 
say about that. He is the injured party-” 

“Do you know that he is still quite attached to you? 
Often have we sat and talked over the present situ¬ 
ation, and I am of the opinion that he would entertain 
suitable overtures. Ele realizes how imperfect he was, 
but he was truly ignorant of his shortcomings. It has 
taught him a bitter lesson. How unfortunate it was 
the break should come when it did! A little forbear¬ 
ance, together with a generous portion of mutual allow¬ 
ance, would have worked wonders. The trouble lay in 
this: that neither of you tried honestly to fathom the 
motives of the other. The judgments of man are cruel 
and cold unless softened by the knowledge of motives. 
This neither of you seemed to want to learn.” 

“I didn’t treat him generously,” she said wdth a show 
of compunction, “nor even impartially. I was not fair. 
But what avails it to deplore the irreparable past! I 
feel like one w T ho has betrayed herself for nothing. It 
is horrible.” 

“I am sure he bears you no ill-will-” 

“Don’t say that. He would not be human if he did 




396 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

not despise me. I didn’t spare him. I told him plainly 
I wanted to be mistress of myself, free of choice, inde¬ 
pendent of action. I got what I wanted. How he 
must have pitied my folly! How disgusted and ap¬ 
palled he must have been!” 

“He has not abandoned you-” 

She shrugged her shoulders hopelessly. 

“I only wish he were here in order that he might 
speak for himself,” went on Dr. Dahill, regardless of 
her despairing gesture. 

“It is best we should not meet,” she replied. “Don’t 
you see I am not free to see him?” 

“But you may be given your freedom any time.” 

“You do not know Kelso Wheaton else you would 
not say that. He has sworn I shall have to bear his 
name as long as I live.” 

“Is that possible?” 

“I don’t know. But you see how determined he is. 
Where is Mr. Colman? In Washington?” 

“Yes. You know Congress rejected his measure, on 
the ground that the rights of the individual States were 
placed in jeopardy. Since Prohibition was enacted the 
States are extremely cautious about giving their ap¬ 
proval to federal laws. They recognize, indeed, that 
Congressional action is the proper course to be pursued 
in the enactment of uniform marriage and divorce 
laws, but are afraid of the further extension of federal 
jurisdiction at the expense of State authority.” 

“He is still very much interested in the work?” 

“Indeed! He began to form immediately inter-state 
bureaus to bring about remedial legislation in the sev- 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 397 

eral State assemblies. I think he has succeeded in 
forming a dozen commissions in as many States. These 
bureaus cooperate with one another and contrive to 
have uniform laws enacted in every State. In this way 
the same effect will be produced.” 

“Is he trying to abolish divorce-?” 

“He would like to make absolute divorce impossible, 
but sentiment is hardly in favor of such a measure.” 

“They will never do it. You cannot compel people 
to live together who are naturally unmated.” 

“That is not the intention. Legal separation is pro¬ 
vided for. The object of the law is to prevent at¬ 
tempted marriages by divorcees.” 

She shook her head. 

“People must want to do what is right,” she said. 
“The law can’t make them.” 

“The welfare of the State is the highest law,” he 
retorted promptly. 

Her hands lay in her lap, folded and motionless, and 
she sat as if absorbed in his words. There was some¬ 
thing exquisitely delicate in the slender mold of those 
features, despite the languid droop of the eyelids, the 
dark, heavy circles beneath the eyes, the pinched and 
colorless skin. Her very soul seemed to breathe out 
the words, “What is more miserable than discontent!” 
Suddenly her head dropped in a gesture of despair as 
she said: 

“There is nothing left for me to do, I suppose, but 
to go to my child.” 

“You are going to see her?” 



398 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


“To-morrow. There is an early train. I shall come 
back to-morrow night.” 

The door closed behind her. She vanished as myste¬ 
riously as she had come, a dim figure moving in the bit¬ 
ing wind and driving snow along the lonesome street. 


XXIX 


T HE charm of Riverton lies in its splendid isola¬ 
tion. When the weather is fine and the sun 
high in the heavens it is a lovely spot, the river, 
the sloping hills, and rich verdant valleys concording in 
happy harmony. A railway runs beside the river, in 
and out among the birches, and above and around the 
channeled slopes. The whole panorama is one of un¬ 
rivaled color and unmatched loveliness. But in winter 
all is reversed. The river is a frozen plain, the fields 
and hills are cold and forbidding mounds and patches, 
perspective is wanting, for earth and sky seem to be 
one. 

On a strong-based promontory, where the river 
bends toward the east, stands an immense quadrangular 
building known as the Riverton Retreat. Edith had 
rarely approached anything with more unaffected ter¬ 
ror than she did this institution. The storm had abated 
when she alighted at the railroad station, and boarded 
a car that rocked and pounded its way to the asylum- 
grounds with all the ease of a caterpillar tractor. It 
was the only conveyance the town afforded. There 
were no automobiles for hire, not even a horse and 
sleigh. The trolley took you to the grounds and left 
you standing there, and you could look up at the im¬ 
posing array of buildings, and wonder how they ever 

399 


4 oo THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

managed to construct so massive an edifice on so pre¬ 
cipitous a slope. 

There was not a sign of man’s hand in all the pros¬ 
pect and, indeed, not even a trace of his passage in the 
freshly-fallen snow. The whole aspect was one of 
solitude, the bare, shivering trees, the woody hillsides 
clothed with fleecy down, the long lines of the buildings 
and their aspect of piercing sadness. Edith’s heart 
grew cold for want of companionship. Everything 
was lifeless, not even a hungry sparrow chirped to dis¬ 
turb the silent monotony. She drew a long breath and 
made her ascent as best she could up the snow-covered 
path that began just beyond the open gate. 

She felt unwelcome and apprehensive as she entered 
this terrible abode. Great, high ceilings showed im¬ 
mense areas of empty space, glassed partitions domi¬ 
nated either side of a bare corridor, enclosing private 
offices like so many compartments of a fortress from 
where dozens of unfriendly eyes, it seemed, peered at 
her to challenge her presence and her purpose. Uni¬ 
formed attendants, precise and industrious, swept past 
her, oblivious of her person or her mission—all these 
frightened her greatly and made her want to hide in 
some corner for safety. A nurse approached, more 
pleasant-looking than the rest, to whom she stammered 
a word or two, and she was bidden to take a seat in 
the waiting-room until the superintendent arrived. It 
was not the custom to receive visitors during the morn¬ 
ing hours, and she would have to explain to him the 
nature of her business and its urgency. 

Upon his arrival she felt somewhat more at ease, 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 401 

but he informed her that visiting hours were set for the 
afternoon because of the fact that the doctors were 
engaged with the patients in the morning, and it would 
greatly interfere with their work if strangers were al¬ 
lowed access at all hours of the day. She understood 
this, she replied, and was perfectly willing to stay in the 
waiting-room, if she might, until the visiting hour had 
arrived, for she had come from afar and was without 
friends in the town. 

“The patient is a relative of yours?” he asked. 

“I am her mother,” Edith replied. “Mrs. Colman.” 

“You are Barbara Colman’s mother!” 

“Yes, doctor,” she acknowledged. 

“Well, of course, Mrs. Colman,” he explained, 
“you understand we have to be very strict about the 
hours for visiting. A good part of the time the patient 
is under observation and cannot be distracted by any 
outside circumstance. You see it would greatly inter¬ 
fere-” 

“I understand,” Edith interrupted, “and I do not 
want you to do anything extraordinary. I was ignorant 
of the rules, otherwise I would have delayed until after¬ 
noon. But—I have not seen my child since she fell 
sick. I was away—and knew nothing about it.” 

“Really! Now, now, let us see what we can do. I 
believe it would make no great difference were you to 
see her. This is your first visit?” 

She bowed her head. 

“Excuse me for a moment, please. We shall see 
what can be done.” 

This ghastly formality helped to revive her terrors. 



402 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

It seemed as if she had been years in this chamber, 
with every breath a pang of anguish and every thought 
a nightmare. She twisted and cracked her knuckles 
like one overcome with nervousness. What were they 
doing to her child? Horrible suggestions, arising from 
the sense of insufferable terror that pervaded her spirit, 
led to a train of thought of the endless pains and tor¬ 
tures perpetrated in these gruesome rooms. Was her 
child at this very moment writhing in pain, while some 
heartless surgeon was operating on her tender head 
and experimenting with her impaired faculties? Per¬ 
haps she was strapped to a bed, not able to move arm 
or leg and was crying her eyes out in unavailing mis¬ 
ery! She had heard how attendants were obliged to 
resort at sundry times to inhuman treatment to coerce 
irresponsible patients. But they would not have to do 
thatwvith Babs. A mere child! So loving and mild! 
Yet who was there to sympathize with her? What 
did these unemotional attendants care, or how could 
they be affected by any grief or pain, they who had 
become so used to such dreadful misery. A deep sigh 
escaped her, a disconsolate sigh from a mother’s sorely 
afflicted heart, and she looked around the hollow en¬ 
closure for consolation. But the bare walls mocked 
her, and told her there was none to be had. 

In a few minutes the door swung open to admit the 
diminutive, portly form of the superintendent, who an¬ 
nounced to her, in his quick, capable manner, that she 
might follow him. It made her head reel. It must be 
true, then. Babs was confined in a padded cell from 
which she was not permitted to escape. A curious sen- 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 403 

sation overpowered her. She went on, hesitatingly. 
The Latin epigram came to her mind about the facile 
descent to the depths. Her very step was mechanical. 
She did not want to go, yet she followed because there 
was nothing else for her to do. 

Up the long corridor they went without a word to 
disturb the solemn march, through doors that had to be 
unlocked and locked again in the course of their pas¬ 
sage, down a flight of stairs with hushed footsteps, and 
out into a large open hall from which a series of doors 
opened on either side. These resembled bedrooms, 
small and plainly furnished, and all were occupied with 
miserable creatures. Edith strained her eyes, peering 
into each of them as best she could from her place on 
the threshold where they had halted, but no sight of 
that dear form rewarded her. Three or four solitary 
women, clad in bathrobes and loose fitting gray gowns, 
appeared in the doorways, standing there like curious¬ 
eyed children, gaping at a spectacle. 

Edith pitied the poor wretches, looking from one to 
the other with compassionate glances, until her gaze 
traveled to the farther end of the room. It rested on 
Babs! Her heart gave a vehement thump, and it was 
with difficulty she restrained herself from rushing over 
to her and seizing her in her arms. The child was rov¬ 
ing about the hall in an uninterested manner, a sober, 
expressionless look on her countenance, a dull, vacant 
stare in her eyes. Her finger rested in her mouth, and 
she seemed to lack any definite purpose. Object after 
object attracted her curiosity, but not her attention. 
She went from place to place in a casual, distracted 


4 o 4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

way, and stared with increasing wonder at each new 
article. An electric light switch caught her fancy with 
its shining brass plate, and she hurried over to feel it, 
twisting the tiny end of her finger into the keyhole to 
see what it was for. Turning away she rubbed her 
hands on the sides of her gray dress, and began a 
leisurely march across the hall. 

“God help us!” Edith breathed, her eyes swimming 
with tears. 

Straight across the floor came the little girl, oblivious 
of everything in the room until her eyes rested on the 
two figures standing motionless in the open passageway. 
She stopped and looked at them with the same uncon¬ 
cern with which she had previously surveyed the other 
objects that had confronted her. Edith stepped for¬ 
ward a little to give the child a better view, but failed 
to make any impression. A strange sound issued from 
one of the nearby rooms, and the child turned her head 
and kept staring in that direction. 

“Does she know anybody?” Edith whispered to the 
superintendent. 

“Yes. She knows her nurse.” 

“Has she a special nurse?” 

“Mr. Colman made provision for that, I believe.” 

“And she knows her?” 

“I think she does. She is much improved, you 
know.” 

Edith called, and the little girl turned at the sound. 
Dubiously she stood and watched. She was motionless 
except for her hands, which were never still. She 
picked at her fingers, brought them together or rubbed 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 405 

them on her dress. All the while her eyes wore that 
vacant, meaningless stare. Edith bent down and 
opened her arms to invite her to come, but the invita¬ 
tion fell on heedless senses, for the little one remained 
unmoved and impassive with the same inscrutable ex¬ 
pression across her face. 

“Babs!” Edith called. 

There was no response. The intensity of her emo¬ 
tion sealed Edith’s lips and she could say no more. 
Finally, in a sort of abject despair she rushed to where 
her child stood and took her forcibly into her arms. 
She hugged her, squeezed her and kissed her passion¬ 
ately. The child did not remonstrate, but yielded to 
the demonstration like one taken by surprise and lost 
for something to say or do. 

“Babs! Don’t you know me?” pleaded the mother. 
“Speak to me! I am your mother. Don’t you remem¬ 
ber mother? Babs!” 

The plaintive appeal made her draw back her head 
and raise her eyes with a hard, concentrated expression 
which stimulated Edith’s waning hopes. But the look 
was still puzzled, and the brow remained puckered by 
the same pronounced frown. 

“Who are you looking at? Babs! It is mother. 
Won’t you say it? Say ‘mother.’ ” 

Edith looked back at the superintendent in despair 
and said: 

“Does she recognize Mr. Colman?” 

“I don’t know, madam. You will have to ask the 
nurse. She sees her more than I.” 


4 o6 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Would you mind calling her? Perhaps she might 
be able to help!” 

After a long pause, during which time Edith resorted 
to every form of coaxing and appeal to impress a 
familiar image on the blank mind, the nurse appeared, 
correct and smiling. No sooner had the child laid eyes 
upon her than she signified her desire to be taken, and 
rested content in her arms. The nurse spoke to her 
and the illusions seemed to vanish. She asked her how 
she was and whose little girl she was to-day and the 
words came back and the tiny arms were fastened about 
her neck in a loving embrace. 

“Has she always known you?” Edith inquired. 

“At first she didn’t. But she is able to remember 
faces now.” 

“Does she know her father?” 

“Lately.” 

“She does not know me at all,” Edith complained 
despairingly. 

The nurse asked her. “Barbara! Do you know 
this lady?” 

Barbara looked, but gave no sign of recognition. 

“Did you ever see her before?” 

She shook her head doubtfully. 

“That is your mother. Don’t you remember your 
mother?” 

No, she did not. 

Finally Edith said, “Do you think she is improving?” 

“Oh, yes! She is doing nicely. Every day I can see 
a big improvement. You see her body is perfectly 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


407 

healthy. It is only the mind now, and that will clear 
up in time.” 

“How long will that be, do you think?” 

“Oh, we never can tell! But usually a small child 
grows out of it. Of course it is a doubtful matter. 
It may take years for her to be completely cured, and 
then again she may have a slight affliction all her life. 
You can’t tell. There are no two cases alike.” 

It was pitiful to behold the mother realize grimly 
the loss of her child. She looked with eyes that con¬ 
veyed the holy secret of love from the depths of her 
soul, since it was impossible to whisper it by way of 
mouth. But still there was no sign, no seal of lips in 
return, no clasp of hands, nor the slightest caress such 
as love claims. The child did not touch her. Her 
very person was a barrier between them. It was im¬ 
possible to penetrate this frozen heart, and the mother’s 
heart grew sad and melancholy as the horrible suspicion 
rose monster-like before her and stared her in the face. 
Her child was lost to her forever, and her love was 
of as little avail as morning mist. 

She made as if to take the child once more in her 
arms but the little creature clung to her nurse. The 
mother’s face grew white as marble, and she stood like 
one transfixed, staring as at the sight of some frightful 
thing. A pang of despair rent her broken heart, and 
made her shudder. To be scorned by her own! It 
was the climax. She stood in solitude, ignorant of what 
to say or do, until her anguish exhausted itself. In 
this frame of mind she turned to go, stricken with the 
consciousness of a gulf of blackness between them which 


408 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

neither could pass. Suddenly she thought she perceived 
a smile of recognition steal softly across the puzzled 
face. Babs knew her! She was asking to be taken 
by her! She seized her frantically, in a delirium of 
joy, and crushed her to her bosom. Fervor glowed 
in her aspect, her eyes beamed like Herman’s bright 
lamps, and her face shone like the light of truth itself. 

“Thanks be to God!” she ejaculated. 

“Do you know who it is?” the nurse asked. 

Babs nodded her head and smiled. 

“Tell me, who am I?” Edith questioned. 

“Mother!” came the soft response. 

It was a sign of recognition that altered Edith’s 
whole future. 

That night she returned to Shefford and called again 
on Dr. Dahill. She looked the picture of cheer and 
gladness, and burst into his office with feverish enthu¬ 
siasm. There was no disputing the change that had 
come over her, and the doctor flushed with pleasure 
as he greeted her with cordial courtesy. 

“She knew me, doctor—and came to me,” she began 
abruptly. 

“At first?” he asked. 

“Not at first. But before I left. Don’t you think 
her memory is returning?” 

“Of course it responds very slowly. I think, though, 
each day will witness a more decided improvement. 
Did she look well?” 

“Splendid! Only,” mother-like, “she was dressed 
so miserably.” 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 409 

“Let’s make the most of it anyhow,” he consoled 
her, “and leave the rest to God.” 

She received this with resignation but said presently: 

“Do you think she would get along better with me?” 

“No! No!” he replied emphatically. “To inter¬ 
fere with her now is the worst thing you could do. 
She must be left where she is until such a time as they 
see fit to discharge her. It may be only a lucid interval 
you saw. The progress of that disease is very uncertain 
and mysterious.” 

“Such a terrible place, doctor, and so lonely! Why 
did Bert put her there?” she complained. “There are 
better places, surely, in the State—more private, more 
comfortable-” 

“That may be true,” came the retort. “But there 
are none so well equipped. We considered all that at 
the time, and thought it best to place her where she 
would receive the best medical attention. The big men 
of the State are at Riverton.” 

She lowered her head and her face assumed a mourn¬ 
ful aspect; she looked like one who had lost the courage 
to hope further. Nervously she picked at the hem of 
her cloak as she tried to make the words come in 
explanation of her thought. At length she said: 

“I want to enter that training-school!” 

“You!” 

“Yes; at Riverton. They have a training-school, 
haven’t they? You see I could be with her. I can’t 
stay away from her, doctor. She is all I have left. 
All I have.” 

“What a life for you!” he said. 



410 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

“Oh—as long as it’s a part of hers.” 

“Of hers!” 

She nodded. 

“And that’s to be all—for both of you?” 
“Well, it is all, isn’t it?” 


XXX 


T HE long winter filled with gloom and depression 
rolled away. So deeply had Edith sunk into de¬ 
spair that she scarce did more than sit alone and 
brood, heedless of the bleak and bitter days that passed 
in silence and sameness, soothed only by the melancholy 
wdiich seemed to cover her like a mourning shroud and 
shut out all semblance of joy. She never expected to 
join hands with gladness again, and in her profound 
wretchedness she felt that all happiness w T as a mockery. 
Her child she saw but occasionally, often but once a 
day, so stringent were the rules that bound her. This 
privation, how T ever, she bore heroically, for if life could 
no longer be cheerful it must not on that account be 
ignoble. Every symptom of frailty and rebelliousness 
she subdued, after the manner of those condemned to 
carry smiling faces over sick hearts. But she grew 
less communicative and companionable, preferring to 
sit and listen by the hour to other people’s misfortunes 
in sympathetic silence. 

She was not daunted by the practical difficulties that 
beset her pathway. The springs of hope were dried 
up within her; she could find no other waters, of solace 
or assurance wherein to find comfort, and she realized 
that she must purchase her freedom at the full price 
she had received for her degradation. Since the shock 


412 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


of the revelation of what she had done, which had 
seemed to divide her life in two, there was nothing 
bitter or acrid in the world that had power to sting 
or smart. She understood now how men could rush 
away from all earthly delight to dwell forever with sor¬ 
row and sadness. There was no more delight on earth 
for her: the one purpose of her life was to be able 
to alleviate the misfortune she had brought upon her 
helpless child. 

Springtime came, with the whole world filled with 
beauty and exhilaration. But she shared none of it 
For a fresh terror had descended upon her and made 
her misery the less endurable. Babs was making no 
appreciable progress, and the doctors were shaking 
their heads with serious misgivings. Her imagination, 
long in a state of morbid activity, conjured up every 
dismal consequence. She walked the grounds bewil¬ 
dered and sometimes ran; sometimes she screamed out 
loud in the night, and sometimes threw herself in a 
corner of the grassy sward and wept. Prayer seemed 
impossible. All that she had heard of death came back 
to her; she saw the pallid little face, she touched the 
cold body and her flesh withered. She almost rejoiced 
in the relief that death would bring, putting a merciful 
end to affliction and torture. 

Bert came at regular intervals to see his stricken 
child and Edith often greeted him. But there was 
never a word of love or reconciliation between them. 
He constantly avoided exchanging glances with her, 
and affected to believe she was not in the room in order 
to avoid any open speech. He appeared to care for no 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 413 

explanation, as if he felt an explanation impossible. 
He was kind and gentle, but repressed every sign of 
interest, if there were any. This only served to make 
her conscious of the appalling truth that her husband 
was indeed alienated from her. 

Once he gave expression to his dissatisfaction with 
the unfavorable turn Bab’s illness had taken, but her 
voice was sunk to a whisper and was lost in her throat 
before she could make reply. 

“If we move her now,” she heard him say, “it might 
only make matters worse.” 

Move her! The very words smote her like a blow, 
making her conscious of something deeper and more 
vital to her than the fact of their estrangement, and 
lending a new interpretation to her present condition. 
Move her! Was it not for Bab’s sake that she had 
volunteered to come to Riverton—so that she could be 
beside her? Pier work here was a solitary opening 
in the rocky wall which shut in her narrow valley of 
grief, through which she might steal a glimpse at the 
vista of a distant happiness. Out there beyond, out 
through that narrow chink lay all her hopes, all her 
aspirations and pleasures. And now this solitary source 
of escape from present miseries was to be denied her. 
She shrank from the terrifying thought, and stood for 
a minute or two with her hands hanging clasped before 
her like a statue. At last she spoke, as if the words 
were wrung from her. 

“Are you going to take her—from me?” she asked, 
tremulously. 

“From you?” he said. 


4 i4 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

She nodded. The tears overflowed and ran slowly 
down her cheeks. 

“I don’t want her to stay here,” he expostulated. 
“It doesn’t seem right. I could provide suitable ac¬ 
commodations for her; but Dr. Dahill would have his 
way. He thought at the time she would do better here, 
would benefit by constant, expert care. I yielded, natu¬ 
rally, but—I must confess—I do not see any great 
improvement.” 

“Would you take her if you knew how much I wanted 
her?” she pleaded. 

“I’m sure I don’t know. She has a home and that 
is the place for her. Somehow or other I don’t quite 
like this-” 

“Oh, you can’t understand!” she cried. “I might 
have known you would not.” 

He was, indeed, perplexed and uncomfortable. He 
stared at her helplessly, and she, partly guessing his 
thought, said: 

“You will let her stay?” 

“Do you really want her so?” 

She nodded. 

“Well, if you want her ... I suppose she needs 
you the more.” 

She gazed at him w T ith increasing astonishment, but 
never for a moment mistook the sincerity of his word. 
She smiled brightly, and with that turned and left the 
room. 

Ineffable moment! She was silly with delight, so 
completely content was her spirit. Bert did not despise 
her; his stifled, ardent emotion disclosed that! Even 



THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 415 

to the man who presents the most strenuous resistance 
to whatever is desirable there will come moments when 
the pressure from without is too strong for him, and 
he must yield in spite of himself. Bert was struggling 
against his own nature, she knew, and sooner or later 
must surrender to the inevitable. She was not certain 
he would yield to the extent of taking her back, but he 
would make friendly overtures which would permit her 
to see him more often. Time would be found for 
serious talk, and a basis of mutual agreement might 
be established. She found herself now in a strange 
predicament, more ardently attached to her estranged 
husband than she had been at any time of their wedded 
life. 

For she had come to realize how poor that sort of 
happiness is that comes by caring very much about our 
own narrow pleasures, to the exclusion of the pleasures 
of those who surround us. She had been accustomed 
to gauge life merely by the sense appeal, and she had 
ruefully learned the lesson that all is not good that 
appears to be good. How often had the whimsical 
notion occurred to her that she was a favored creature, 
whom the Fates loved to toy with! Her whole moral 
world was the world of creatures. But with human 
nature her knowledge had ended. Never had she 
stopped to consider that human nature was capable of 
evil as well as good, or that the difference between 
goodness and badness in people consisted solely in the 
right or wrong use they made of the powers w T hich 
God had given them. That she should have known 


4 i6 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 

better did not make her know better at the time when 
she needed the knowledge most. 

The Wheatons had ignored her as if she had never 
existed. And yet her precipitate flight from that de¬ 
tested place afforded her no remorse; on the contrary, 
she was glad, for it was the truth which compelled 
her and she felt she must obey, else she would be bound 
with chains which she would be forced to wear forever. 
Kelso gave no thought to her now. He had already 
plighted his troth for the second time, to Mrs. Liggett, 
as she suspected he would do upon obtaining his 
divorce. The action she did not contest. She did not 
even heed the summons which was served on her in the 
usual way, inviting her to appear before the Court to 
show cause why Kelso Wheaton should not be given 
his freedom on the grounds of desertion. The an¬ 
nouncement of its granting she hailed with perfect 
indifference, and she greeted with equal indifference the 
intelligence that another had immediately succeeded to 
her name and station in the mansion at Westlawn. 

She was never more aware of how ignorant she was 
of herself, how completely she misunderstood herself 
and how different she really was from what she had 
thought herself to be. How stupid she had been! 
How foolish! How insensate! Were it not for the 
catastrophe that had occurred in her life these defects 
and habits, of which she had been wholly unconscious, 
w r ould never have stood revealed. She had never come 
face to face with her inner self before. Other people’s 
lives had only exhibited her own brilliant perfections. 
It was experiment, breaking through the surface and 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 417 

exposing the throbbing pulsations of the mysterious, 
fundamental self, that finally convinced her of the 
truth. 

Her chief concern now was that her husband would 
relent and take her back, and the hope would not have 
been well-founded had she not observed his confusion. 
Clearly he was the one to forgive and she trusted his 
magnanimous, generous soul to rise to the occasion and 
prompt him to do what was noble. If it had been 
in his nature to desire revenge he would never have 
yielded to her wish to keep the child. Unquestionably, 
home was the place for Bab now, with all prospect of 
immediate cure fast disappearing. She wanted to have 
Babs taken home, but she also wanted to be taken with 
her, where she hoped to atone for her impetuosity and 
selfishness by living the life of a dutiful wife and a 
devoted mother. 

Day after day she awaited him, and still he did not 
come. Was it possible he feared to trust himself in 
her presence? His face betrayed him as much as if 
it had been his whole person with the soul behind 
it. He had seemed, for the moment, to yield in her 
presence. And her mind was again assailed, not by 
any doubt of him, but by doubt of herself. Had she 
betrayed overanxiety? Embarrassment fell upon her 
as she considered this evident weakness—these momen¬ 
tary impulses which discipline had not yet modified. 
It was the first time they had met and exposed their 
hearts to each other since her flight and return, and 
the exhilaration of the moment had asserted itself and 


418 THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


destroyed whatever power she had of holding herself 
in restraint. 

And then, suddenly, came a day when a message was 
brought to her that Mr. Colman wanted to see her in 
the Children’s Ward. She sprang up, forgetting every¬ 
thing but the welcome summons. A slight shiver 
passed through her as she came to Bab’s private room 
and knocked. And some impulse, strong as the grasp 
of a giant, urged her on with a brightness of antici¬ 
pation that put to flight every other doubt and fear. 

“You asked to see me?” she said, pausing a little. 

Instead of answering her he asked: “You know Bab 
is not going to get well, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Edith replied. “Not for a long time.” 

“She needs constant care.” 

She bowed her head. “That is the reason I asked 
to have her stay,” she said. 

“Don’t you think she would do better at home?” he 
continued, with a new firmness. 

“With you?” 

“Yes!” 

“But you can’t devote all your time to her, and she 
needs personal attention.” 

“I shall try to get somebody who can give it to her.” 

It flashed across her at that instant that he meant 
to tell her that he could no longer accede to her re¬ 
quest; that he had decided to take Babs back with him; 
and that he had sent for her in the hope that she would 
suggest the name of a trustworthy nurse to take proper 
care of her. The mere suspicion that this thought was 
in his mind made her feel harsh and impafjient. She 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 419 

had come down prepared for any attitude but this, and 
she was not surprised to find now that she had nothing 
to say. 

“Oh, well,” she muttered, “she is yours, I suppose! 
I have nothing to say about it.” 

“But I want you to say something,” he cried sharply. 
“She is as much yours as mine. She needs you more 
than she does me.” 

“Then why don’t you leave her with me? In due 
time I shall have completed my training, and can devote 
all my time to her.” 

To disguise his annoyance he took out his watch and 
looked at it savagely. With a great show of exertion 
he put it back again in his pocket. There were heavy 
furrows on his forehead, his hair showed signs of early 
gray. Raising his eyes he looked at her, leaning for¬ 
ward, her eyes fixed upon him, her hands clasped be¬ 
tween her knees. 

“Do you really want to know why I’ve come here 
to-day?” he asked. 

“To take Babs!” 

“Do you honestly believe that?” 

“What could be more natural? I knew you would 
not let her stay. You were always mad about her.” 

He was silent, but continued looking straight at her. 
Then he said: 

“What is the use of going on like this forever? You 
are not happy here; it will be infinitely worse when 
Babs leaves. I am not happy, and Babs needs you. 
Both of us are deluding ourselves that we are doing 
the proper t' ing when, down in our hearts, we know 


420 


THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT 


that we are doing wrong, but are too cowardly to admit 
it. I came here to see you to-day; I came here because 
I want you to come back with me, because I need you, 
and because your place is with me and your little girl.” 

For an instant she stared at him. Then tears over¬ 
flowed her lashes and dropped on her lap. She buried 
her face in her hands. 

“And you think this—worse—!” she muttered. 

“A thousand times, yes! Both of us made mistakes. 
Let us forget them. Let us begin life all over again.” 

“Flow can you trust me?” she cried. “I know I 
have done you a great w T rong. But I have learned my 
lesson. I did not understand—I did not want to 
understand-’ ’ 

He sprang to her side, caught her by the wrists 
raising her to her feet and stopping her words. His 
eyes clung to her desperately. 

“Won’t you say you will come? I want you. Babs 
wants you. You will, w r on’t you?” 

She turned with one of those sudden, bewildering 
movements and put her hands on his shoulders. Her 
eyes shone with tears. 

“Of course I shall come.” 

He drew her to him and she did not resist. Her 
face looked up at his and he kissed away the tears. 
They stood that way for a long time, long enough for 
her silence to communicate all she had to say, and for 
him to feel that only one thing mattered. 

She had found the haven of true happiness at last. 


THE END 



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